


Blackpool (Alternative Version)

by cinnamon_lyons



Category: Blackpool
Genre: Angst, Blood and Violence, Child Abuse, Consensual Underage Sex, Emotional Manipulation, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Murder, Physical Abuse, Sorry Not Sorry, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Underage Sex, and my david morrissey obsession, david may look a little like a young david walliams, david morrissey, entirely for my own amusement, set alternately in the 1970s and early 2000s, slash version of blackpool, there's something wrong with me, underage sex is only in backstory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2018-05-31 00:56:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 41,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6449071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnamon_lyons/pseuds/cinnamon_lyons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loosely based on the TV Series 'Blackpool' and a sad result of my ever-worsening David Morrissey obsession. There isn't enough Ripley Holden on the interwebs. So here's what might have happened if there was a whole different back story to the Mike Hooley case. Involving lots of gay sex, plenty of violence and some angst. There's always angst...</p><p>Listed solely as M/M because I don't really go into the Peter/Natalie relationship in any detail. There's rather a lot of other embellishment here, obviously (especially about Ripley's childhood). Tagged underage because the two main characters get together aged 15, though the more explicit scenes are written as adults. Also note that the homosexual age of consent in Britain in the 1970s was 21, not 16 as it is now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1: Nostalgia

**Author's Note:**

> Set around the same time as the TV series (early 2000s). While David is a fictional character, he may bear some resemblance to a younger David Walliams (let's gloss over the fact that he's probably the same age as DW actually is now). I am ashamed and disturbed by my past interests. But hey, I wrote 100 pages of it, so what the hell - let's share it online anyway!

When he first clocked the body lying on the floor of his seafront arcade, Ripley Holden swayed a little, his usual confident swagger faltering for a split second before he recovered himself. He reached out, gripping onto the corner of one of the machines, his knuckles whitening. For a moment, that sight had taken him back decades.

And then he recovered, as he always did.

“What the fuck’s this?” He demanded, as if any of his staff might know. And then he turned it into a bad joke. “The punters are dying for the triple bonus, is that it?”

Ruth, the cashier, let out a squeal.

“Oh, my word! That young man! Is he okay?” She clasped her stomach. “Ooh, that’s set me indigestion right off. What a sight!”

Ripley strode forward, eyes fixed on the shine of his shoes rather than the body lying in front of him. He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that the lad was dead. He’d seen this before, after all.

In the background he could hear Ruth continuing to jabber away. He wasn’t really listening but he thought she might finally be getting around to calling an ambulance. Out of the corner of his eye he could just about see Deaf Barry, standing uncertainly by the slot machines. But everything was a little hazy. Everything, except the lad lying in front of him. He could see the bright red blood in his spiked, dyed blond hair as clear as day. The man’s clothes were torn, his shirt hanging half off him, the front of it soaked in blood. He looked about twenty: a year or two older at the outside.

He was just David’s type.

Ripley forced himself to look away. He couldn’t let anyone see how much this had shaken him.

“Tell them coppers to get a move on, Ruth!” He barked. “I want us up and running by tonight.”

“Ooh, I need to sit down!” Ruth was off the phone. “Where’s Maureen? I need a cuppa for the shock.”

Ripley nodded. Best to clear everyone out of here.

“Barry, take Ruth for a sit down and a cup of tea. Have one yourself while you’re at it. Chantelle?” He turned to look at the young gambler, who was still gawping over her pushchair at the body. “Take the baby for a walk, all right love? There’s nowt you can do here.” She nodded, wide-eyed, wheeling the chair round in a circle and walking out without a word, leaving Ripley alone with the body.

He crouched down, still staring, and forced himself to reach out and press two fingers into the man’s neck. He wasn’t surprised when he couldn’t find a pulse. He bit his lip, closing his eyes for a second.

 _Fucking hell, David, what did you_ do _?!_ He heard his own voice, much younger – a flashback in his ears. He swallowed. Why, after all this time? Why _here_ , in _his_ casino?

Ripley was still crouched by the body when the emergency services arrived.

“I think he’s dead.” He told the paramedics as they approached. “I couldn’t find a pulse, so I didn’t move him.”

“We’ll take it from here, Mr Holden.” They assured him.

“Mr Holden, can I have a word?” Another voice, as he got to his feet. A tall, lanky detective with dark hair and a Scottish accent was regarding him thoughtfully from a few feet away. Ripley nodded.

Time for the questions. But he’d had long enough to recover from the momentary surprise. He’d kept his secrets for twenty-five years. He could keep them a few more.

*

Ripley Holden wasn’t scared of the police - one of his best friends ran the local police station, after all, which showed just how far he'd come! But he'd always found their questions easy enough to deflect, and he knew his past was well hidden. What he _didn’t_ know was whether that past was coming back to haunt him.

When he’d answered Detective Inspector Carlisle’s questions and left them to their investigations, Ripley strolled out along the seafront, half expecting a tall, dark-haired figure to approach him at any second. But one hour turned to two, and still he found himself walking alone in the steadily growing crowds. In the end, he drove home instead. If this was what he thought it was, best to prepare himself.

The house was empty mid-morning: his daughter, Shyanne, at College, son Danny at school and his wife Natalie on her shift at the Samaritans. No chance of anyone disturbing him as he heaved down the ladder from the attic trapdoor and hauled himself up into the dim loft space. Dust covered the discarded remnants of their lives: old children’s toys, clothes and books that once upon a time they’d thought were best stored for later, but probably should have been binned even then. Still, the jumble of boxes and bags easily hid items with a more sinister history.

Ripley threw several bulging bin bags aside, fishing his keys out of his pocket to unlock a battered old wooden box well buried by years of accumulated junk. He always kept it locked, although he knew how unlikely it was that any member of his family would go rummaging around up here. He sat down on a pile of reasonably sturdy storage boxes and tilted up the solid wooden lid.

If Natalie had ever asked, he would have told her that the box contained mementoes of his father’s: too painful to look at, but too valuable to burn as he would have wished. And the box _had_ been his father’s, he’d taken it after the funeral. Storage for a bible and a belt – two things Ripley always associated with each other, even today. Keeping the box had been a final ‘fuck you’ to the old man, a confirmation that neither bible nor belt had ever changed Ripley the way his father wanted.

But he didn’t think about his father now, because the box contained something quite different. A revolver, old but hopefully in reasonable working order, was clearly visible on top of a pile of papers. He took the gun out first, opening the barrel and checking it still spun. This he’d keep, just in case. He doubted that leaving a dead body in someone’s arcade was intended as a friendly way to renew past acquaintance, so it was best to be safe. Then again, David was a fucking psycho, so it was entirely possible that this was his best effort at fond reminiscence!

Ripley prised the papers out of the box, a good thick wedge of them: mainly letters and notes, a few photographs and a passport with his own picture and a different name. These, he would burn. He should have done it years ago. Why hadn’t he? Sentimental attachment, he supposed. But had it really been worth the risk of Natalie finding them? Some of those letters, he well knew, were explicit to say the least.

He peeled a photo off the bottom of the pile. It was slightly out of focus: two lads in their late teens, sitting laughing behind a table in a bar. The older of the two had one arm flung casually around the other’s shoulders. That was typical David. It could have looked endearing if Ripley hadn’t known it was a sign of ownership.

He hadn’t cared at the time the photo was taken. He’d adored David back then, worshipped the fucking ground he walked on! He’d thought David would change his life. And he had, although not necessarily in the way Ripley had expected him to.

Ripley sighed softly and then staggered to his feet, the stack of papers clutched in his hand, the revolver stuck into his belt. He’d kept all this because a part of him still felt he owed David. He might well not have anything he had now if it hadn’t been for that twisted son of a bitch. He could even be dead. Somehow he’d wanted to mark the importance of that, despite the fact he’d walked out on David and left everything they’d shared behind.

Ripley sipped a whiskey as he burnt the letters one by one in the barbecue beside the pool. It felt a little like a wake. He could pick out the occasional fragment in David’s spiky, slanted handwriting: ‘leave for Vegas’, ‘get out of this shithole’, ‘fuck you till you beg me…’ He swallowed hard. Most of these had been written after David was discharged, when Ripley was still in hospital dreaming of escape. Escape not just from Whittingham but from Lancashire and his father, from a country in which opportunity seemed to have up and died along with his childhood dreams. The bitter smoke from the burnt papers pricked at his eyes, making them water.

At the last minute, Ripley snatched the photograph from the flames, patting down a charred corner. He pulled his wallet from his back pocket, sliding the picture in among a wad of banknotes and receipts. Sentimental attachment, yes. An easy thing to say, but far harder to break.

*

When Ripley Holden was fifteen, he’d tried to kill himself. He hadn’t been Ripley Holden then, but nonetheless he knew it would come as a shock to his friends and family if they ever found out. Ripley himself, though… even now he wondered why it had taken him so long. He’d grown up with a strictly religious father, who thought his wayward son would best find the Lord if he beat the bible into him, and a mother so absent, lost as she was in her own mind and troubles, that he could scarcely remember her. He was a cocky lad at school – ‘wild’, his teachers had called him. After a spate of glue-sniffing (well, everyone sniffed glue in the ‘70s!) he’d turned to alcohol at thirteen as the best means of escape he could find. His former classmates would no doubt remember him as an angry drunken petty criminal, but Ripley knew he’d simply been a messed up kid with no hope of a future.

What had tipped him over the edge? He wasn’t sure, even now. One day, he’d simply woken up and decided he couldn’t take it anymore. He didn’t go to school. He didn’t go and find his mates down the seafront. He walked as far as the golf course at St Anne’s and sat leaning against a tree in the crisp December air, drinking cider until he could scarcely walk. And then he’d staggered onto the railway line and laid down in the cold. He’d passed out pretty quickly, so he reckoned it would have been a fairly painless death, had he not been spotted moments before the train was due to pass and dragged clear by a passing policeman.

He wasn’t hurt, just belligerent, so it probably would all have been passed off as an alcohol-related misdemeanour – a caution and maybe a night in the cells to sober him up and deter him from further drinking misadventures – had Ripley not gone mental in the police station. He vaguely remembered screaming and hurling himself about as they tried to take him to the cells. He shouted that if they let him go he’d jump right off Blackpool Tower; he’d drown himself in the sea and nothing anyone could do would stop him! He couldn’t spend another moment on this stinking earth, in a shithole dead end town. Then he’d split his head open on the tiled wall and, when he came round, he had fifteen stitches and was sectioned under the Mental Health Act.

It had been something of a relief, actually, the enforced incarceration in Whittingham Hospital. With remarkable speed and efficiency, Ripley Holden – or John Wesley Price, as he’d been christened by his bastard father – was swept away from every remnant of his godawful former life. In one fell swoop he left his hated parents, the schoolmates he’d tolerated and attacked in turns, the shitty seaside town he’d never expected to escape from, the glue and the booze and the fighting that never really helped. Asylums, wasn’t that what they used to call them? Filthy and noisy and under-staffed and downright dangerous as it was, Whittingham seemed like asylum to Ripley at the time.

Whittingham Hospital was one of the big old Victorian psychiatric hospitals: a huge stone edifice of draughty dormitories and day-rooms like corridors on the outskirts of Preston. It closed down less than twenty years later but, in the late ‘70s, most patients were still housed in the original wings. The teenagers were separated from the adult patients: as David later said, rather sardonically, this was probably to given them false hope of recovery by keeping them from seeing the chronic nutters. Nonetheless, Ripley was rather glad he was taken straight to his ward without meeting any long-stay patients that first day.

The adolescent unit was in a wing that had originally been built as an infirmary. The day room was small and dark, the dormitories divided into separate rooms shared by just two or three patients. The ward was locked and, retrospectively, Ripley had often wondered why he hadn’t railed against the curtailment of his freedom when he was first admitted. He remembered waiting surprisingly patiently with two burly male nurses while one of them unlocked first the reception area and then, when the heavy door had slammed firmly closed behind them, the ward itself. He supposed it indicated just how trapped he had felt in his former life that, for most of the ten months he was at Whittingham, he imagined those solid metal doors to be keeping the rest of the world _out_ , rather than locking him in. It was only when David left that things changed and, by that time, he was allowed out on unsupervised walks and, not long after, day release from the grounds as well (‘fuck release’, David called it).

He met David that very first day. As they walked through the day room – remarkably quiet for once – he saw several younger boys playing cards at a table and another, slightly older, lounging in a chair by the window, reading. As they passed, the boy reading looked up and Ripley could still picture his smile. The lad was about Ripley’s age, maybe slightly older, tall and broad-shouldered but lean. He had dark hair, slicked back from his face, and his smile was knowing and even slightly cruel. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“Well, hello new kid.” The boy said, in a rather camp southern accent. He turned his grin to one of the nurses. “Aren’t you going to introduce us, Brian?”

“That’s Mr King to you, you cheeky get.” The nurse, Brian, snapped back. He clearly had a deep dislike for the lad. Then he softened a little, presumably for Ripley’s benefit. “John, this is David. Watch him – he’s trouble.” Ripley was intrigued, despite himself. Outside, he would probably have derided David immediately as a soft southern pansy. But here, now, he could see something else. And he’d always been attracted to trouble.

“All right.” Ripley said, rather gruffly, his accent sounding thicker after David’s Home Counties twang. David smiled again: more broadly, this time.

“Charmed, I’m sure.” He said. There was a strange hint of danger to his tone and his smile. Camp as a Bond villain, Ripley thought.

“Come on, lad.” Brian’s voice softened, and he touched Ripley’s shoulder. “Your room’s just down this way. You’re sharing with Bill and Alan, let’s see if they’re about.”

When Ripley turned as they reached the doorway, David was still staring after them. When he caught Ripley’s eye, he winked. Ripley found himself blushing a little, though he was naïve enough then that he wasn’t quite sure why. Brian saw and scowled, yelling back over his shoulder.

“You try anything, Williams you little psycho, and you’ll get no privileges for a month – and that includes cigarettes!”

*

Ripley returned to the arcade for the evening shift, but the cops were still milling about. He took Carlisle to one side with a scowl.

“When can I re-open? We’re losing money here.” He snapped. He’d never liked policemen, even before things went all Bonnie and Clyde with David. That's why he'd befriended Jim Allbright after all - keep your friends close, and your enemies closer!

“Ah, Mr Holden!” Carlisle feigned surprise at seeing him. “We’ll have you up and running for tomorrow. Best to be thorough in these situations, I’m sure you’ll agree. We don’t want anything like this happening again.”

“Someone’s dumped him here to ruin my business!” Ripley complained. “Why don’t you do your job and talk to Chilcott down the road? He’s been after this site for years!” Carlisle nodded, still smiling.

“Well, if you’re so keen to help, Mr Holden, maybe I could ask you a few questions?” He suggested. “Shall we have a cup of tea in your office?” Ripley shrugged, scowling again, but there was little he could do other than send his staff home and do as Carlisle asked.

“We’ve identified the deceased, Mr Holden. A Michael Hooley – Mike, to his friends. Who, I might add, appear to have mostly been gentlemen of the night, if you catch my drift. Did you know him?” Ripley snorted.

“Do I look like the sort of man who consorts with fucking rent boys?”

“In my line of work, appearance is rarely much of a defence, Mr Holden.” Carlisle pointed out. “Nor is a wife and kids, I might add.”

“So now you’re accusing me of being a nancy?” Ripley retorted.

“I wasn’t doing anything of the kind! But if you’d like to get something off your chest?”

“You’d be the first person I’d open up to, detective.” Ripley rolled his eyes. “Anyway, I never seen the lad before. I don’t know why someone would dump him here, other than to ruin my trade.”

“This person went to quite an effort, just to ruin you.” Carlisle pointed out. “The deceased had twenty-two separate knife wounds – at least three of which might have been fatal. He’d also been sexually assaulted.”

“Doesn’t that go with the territory, in _his_  trade?” Ripley shrugged carelessly.

“Perhaps.” Carlisle admitted. “But it doesn’t look much like a business transaction. More like burglary.”

“So, someone wanted a freebie?” Ripley shrugged again. “The little shit threatened them with the cops, they got nasty and then decided to kill two birds with one stone and ruin me as well!”

“Ah, you really are the master of deduction, aren’t you Mr Holden?” Carlisle mocked. Ripley was getting rather irritated by his sarcasm. He was so riled up that he was rather thrown when Carlisle added. “Have you ever seen something like this before, Mr Holden?”

“Wha-?” The line of questioning was rather unexpected. Ripley recovered, rolling his eyes, “Oh of course, I’ve a sideline in disposal: people dump their unwanted rent boys here all the time!”

“This isn’t the first time a body like this has been found in Blackpool.” Carlisle’s words were quiet, serious. “There was a very similar instance in 1979. The case was never solved.”

“Well, you’re the copper, you remember crimes better than me.” Ripley reminded him. Carlisle nodded.

“It’s more sophisticated this time.” He added. “Do you know what I think?”

“Oh, do enlighten me!” Ripley sighed, in exaggerated exasperation.

“I think last time the murderer was rather young. But he’s had practice since then. He knows what he’s doing now. He’d probably be about… forty-three?”

Ripley, who was exactly forty-three, knew what Carlisle was getting at. He also knew he was simply trying to wind him up, get him to open up in order to defend himself. But he wasn’t playing.

“Well, that’s all speculation, innit?” He remarked. “And if you’ve got nothing better to do than speculate, _I’m_ going to enjoy my unexpected night off!”

“By all means.” Carlisle nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr Holden.”

Ripley merely snorted as he left.

*

It was heading towards autumn and the sky was already growing dark as Ripley left the arcade. He went walking again, irritated by DI Carlisle, wanting a drink and a laugh and knowing it was too early for his friends to be out at Romeo’s, or even the nearby bar. He’d have a drink on his own in The Crown round the corner: it’d be quiet at this time of night, and he could gather his thoughts and calm down, he decided.

It was a relief to sink into a booth with his pint, taking a long drag straight off the top. He relaxed back in the chair, taking a glance around the half empty room. He caught the eye of a bird across the pub and grinned. Maybe a shag was what he needed?

Then, as if they’d read his mind, someone slid into the booth opposite him, clinking a glass down on the table, and a horribly familiar voice said.

“Hello, lover.”

The bottom dropped out of Ripley’s stomach: an instant jolt of panic and fear and, underneath that, a hint of the exhilaration he always used to feel when he heard those tones. He looked up, his eyes steely, his expression closed.

“David.” He said shortly. “I was wondering when you’d show your face.”

David was immediately recognizable. He had not been quite twenty when Ripley last saw him, a good quarter-century ago. But he had the same sardonic grin, the same dark, flinty eyes: if anything, a little more dangerous even than in his youth. It was disturbingly attractive. His dark hair was cropped a little shorter, but the same shade, not even a hint of grey. Ripley figured he coloured it, but then he could hardly talk.

“You’re looking well.” David said. Ripley watched his gaze travel appraisingly over a body he himself knew was still reasonably trim, and then up to his face. David licked his lips, slowly and meaningfully.

“I’m married.” Ripley said shortly, trying not to let on how much David was flustering him.

“I know, sweetheart.” David laughed a little. Then he said. “Did you like your present?” Ripley scowled.

“I didn’t know whether to take it as a memento or a threat, you fucking psychopath!” He snapped. David shrugged.

“Maybe it was a little bit of both.” He said, smirking.

“Why now?” Ripley asked. “More than twenty years and I don’t hear a fucking word from you! And now… _this?!_ ”

“Did you miss me?” David teased.

“I told you, I’m married.” Ripley drained his glass and got to his feet.

“Mmm, but not especially faithful, I imagine.” David chuckled. Ripley shrugged.

“David, if you only came back here to tease me, you might as well give it up.” He was shaking a little, but he didn’t think it was visible as he eased himself out of the booth and made for the door.

He didn’t realise David was following him until he rounded the back of the casino, away from the crowds, making for his car in one of the side streets behind the arcade. He heard the footsteps behind him as he ducked along a covered alleyway and whirled round, fists clenching.

“What the fuck are you doing?” He demanded.

“I thought you were leading me somewhere a little more private.” David said, wiggling his eyebrows and laughing again. Ripley scowled, annoyed, and he stepped forward.

“I don’t know what you get out of all this.” He snapped, “But things are very different now than when we were kids. This is my town these days. And if you don’t stop fucking with me, you won’t be here to enjoy it very long!”

David took a step forward. He was less than two feet away from Ripley.

“You’re so fucking adorable when you’re angry: you know that, right baby?” David smirked again. Ripley wanted to punch him. Instead, he found he’d shoved David up against the wall and stuck his tongue down his throat.

David gasped into Ripley’s mouth, kissing him back just as passionately. Ripley thought he’d bitten David’s lip – certainly his teeth nipped against something, but he didn’t really care. He pinned David against the wall and held him there. His cock was rock hard in his trousers, and he ground himself against David, feeling David’s hands grabbing at his buttocks.

It wasn’t like David to let someone else take the upper hand for long. He shoved, hard, slamming Ripley backwards against the other wall of the narrow passageway, almost winding him. Then he kissed him again, fiercely, one hand grappling between their bodies at Ripley’s fly.

Ripley managed to push David away, gasping.

“Not here! Shit, David, someone could walk by any moment!”

“And then your whole family man charade falls away, eh?” David smirked, groin still pressed close against Ripley’s. Ripley groaned, but he held firm.

“There’s _police_ in the arcade, David, for fuck’s sake! You want them investigating you? There’s more skeletons in your closet than Mike fucking Hooley!”

His words finally hit home, and David stepped back a little.

“True, true. But I’m not leaving Blackpool without enjoying your pretty little arse again, lover boy.” He chuckled. Ripley swallowed. He couldn’t think clearly.

“Meet me at the Jolly Roger at midnight.” He managed at last. It was a shit tourist pub. He wouldn’t run into anyone he knew. “I’ll find somewhere we can go.”

David kissed him firmly on the lips, one last time.

“Until midnight, then.” And, with that, he turned and stalked off down the passage.

*

Ripley was shaking when he got to his car. He checked the gun was in the glove compartment. Not that he was planning on shooting David, but he knew David all too well. He needed to stay on his guard.

He couldn’t go home. Not now. Not after seeing David and… well, what had he expected to happen? When he’d realized David was back, he’d known there’d be a visit. Even when he first saw the body, he’d known in the back of his mind what was going on. As David had just said: a little bit of a memento, a little bit of a threat… it all boiled down to what Ripley had thought when he looked at the photograph. A matter of ownership.

David was proving a point. No matter what had happened in between, no matter how many years had passed, Ripley was still _his_. And, with David, obviously that included his for sex. Again, he’d _expected_ that. David was going to want to fuck him, whether or not Ripley himself was keen on the idea. David had never been particularly fussy about little matters like consent.

The thing that had shaken Ripley was the realisation that he still wanted David. And, accompanying that knowledge, the fear that David had been right all along. He remembered when he’d left David, all those years ago. He’d been upset at the time. Angry. Part of him had even wanted David to persuade him to stay, despite everything David had done. But David had simply laughed at him. “You’re mine, Ripley Holden.” He’d smirked. “You’ll realise it, one day.”

“Fuck!” Ripley hit the steering wheel in a rage. Then he ran a hand through his hair. He needed to think this through. He needed to go for a drive.

It took forty minutes to drive out to Whittingham. Ripley left his car at the sports ground and strolled out across the grass, toward the building site. It was late and the place was deserted. After a quick glance around, Ripley grabbed onto a tree to boost himself up and haul himself over the hoardings that surrounded it.

He dropped down onto the bare earth with a thud. He didn’t even know if any of the buildings were still there, although he seemed to recall that some of the older structures had been listed, which meant they couldn’t pull them down. He lit a cigarette, wandering rather aimlessly across the site. He could barely recognize anything, and it wasn’t just the dim light. It took half an hour of walking round blank half-finished structures before he finally recognised the old frontage, well disguised by new apartment blocks flanking it on either side.

Ripley sat down on the steps outside and lit another cigarette. So, what was it that made him David’s? His name? It had been David’s scorn that prompted him into changing it. It was mid-afternoon, a few days after Ripley got to the hospital. He had been sitting in the day room. A few of the other lads were watching telly, but Ripley just heard it as noise in the background. He sat at one of the scratched wooden tables, smoking, gazing dismally out of the window at the frosty grounds.

David sat down next to him. Ripley glanced up, glaring a little. He didn’t really want to talk to anyone. He’d spent the last few days in silence, adjusting to his new surroundings. It wasn’t that bad. But it wasn’t great, either.

“Give us a fag, new kid.” David said. It wasn’t a request, more of an order. He took the packet as he spoke, and fished a cigarette out of it before Ripley had a chance to reply. In the outside world, Ripley would have started a fight over less. But, at the moment, he didn’t much care.

“Haven’t you got your own?” He asked dully. The staff hadn’t worried that much about smoking in those days, even though most of the kids were technically too young. There was nothing much else to do in the looney bin and everyone knew it. David grinned.

“No privileges.” He said. “Brian’s always out to get me, you must have noticed that.” Ripley shrugged.

“He’s not the only person who’s warned me about you.” He remarked. Some of the other lads had told him to keep his guard around David. Brian was just a bit more vocal about it. “What did you do?”

David merely grinned at him again. He leant forward, the cigarette in his mouth. Rolling his eyes a little, Ripley leaned in towards him, pressing the smouldering end of his fag against David’s.

“Ta.” David leant back in his chair in a haze of smoke, taking a long puff on the cigarette.

“How long have you been here?” Ripley asked him.

“Nine months. They tell me I’m lucky I’m not in juvie.” He shrugged. “Sentence would have been shorter, though, so I’m not buying _that_ one.” There was a long pause. David stared right at Ripley, and Ripley gazed off into the mid-distance. Then David finally spoke again. “So, why did you try and kill yourself, John Wesley Price?”

This shocked Ripley out of his apathy and he got to his feet, throwing his chair back so that it smacked against the wall and grabbed David’s collar.

“Don’t fucking call me that!”

“Why not?” David was smirking again, clearly delighting in winding Ripley up. “It’s your name, isn’t it?” There was another pause, and then he added. “You know, you’re so fucking adorable when you’re angry.”

“You’re not fucking worth it.” Ripley let go, stepping back, breathing hard. David regarded him thoughtfully for a moment and Ripley looked away, feeling uncomfortable under the scrutiny.

“It may be the name on your admission record. But it doesn’t have to be what anyone calls you, you know.”

“What do you mean?” Ripley turned back, intrigued despite himself.

“You tried to kill yourself. You lived. Why not live a different life?” David suggested.

And that, more or less, was when John Wesley Price had become Ripley Holden. It was also what started his friendship with David, despite the concern – and often downright hostility – shown by the staff. Brian had come storming over a few moments afterwards, snatching the cigarette off David and stubbing it out angrily.

“No privileges means no privileges, you little shit!” His glare had taken in Ripley as well, this time. “Don’t pander to him, Price. He’ll be after you next.”

“Mm why not? He’s cute, isn’t he?” David commented. Brian’s hand curled into a fist, but he didn’t do anything.

“You’ll wind up in Broadmoor by the time you’re eighteen, you mark my words.” He snarled. “Antisocial personality my arse. You’re a fucking psychopath, that’s what you are!”

*

Ripley threw his cigarette on the bare earth, frowning as he remembered. He’d been a contrary little sod at that time. He wondered whether he’d have pursued the friendship with David if it hadn’t been for everyone telling him to do otherwise. Possibly not. But possibly David would have been after him all the same, and he hadn’t really been in any position to resist. He’d been a lonely, messed up kid with no reason to live and David had given him that reason. He had thrown himself into the relationship with David, body and soul.

It wasn’t just his new identity he owed to David: the confidence and determination that was partly a reflection of David’s own manner and partly his own anger and drive finally emerging from the malaise. It was also David who had gotten him away from his father at last. Ripley’s discharge from hospital had been quite sudden. He’d written to David to say he had a date to go before the committee but he hadn’t expected that to be his last morning in hospital. He’d sat before a panel of aloof but kindly doctors, none of whom he’d seen much of while he was in Whittingham, and answered their questions with nervous over-confidence. They’d told him how much improvement they saw in him and he’d agreed, although inwardly he questioned their assumption that it was the hospital that had helped him out of suicidal depression. Well, only inasmuch as it was the place he met David.

Brian collected him afterwards, leading him out of the room with one hand on his shoulder. Ripley expected to be taken back to the ward while preparations were made, but then the nurse told him his parents were waiting to collect him.

“I’m to go now? This minute?” He’d been a little stunned.

“Rueben’s packed your things for you.” Was that a hint of disapproval in Brian’s words? Ripley’s ears went red. If they’d been through his things, they’d probably read the letters. Brian gave him a long, appraising look.

“I wanted to burn some of that filth you got from Williams.” He said disapprovingly. “But you know how soft-hearted Rueben is. He persuaded me it might send you over the edge again.” His frown deepened. “Personally, I think that psycho bastard’s more likely to tip you over all by himself. And the worst of it is, he’ll have you _wanting_ to jump for him!” Ripley didn’t say anything, but he suspected this was why Brian had arranged for his parents to come in secret. David didn’t have a telephone, so if Ripley was rushed out of the hospital he had no way of letting David know he was leaving.

Brian squeezed his shoulder.

“Stay away from him, that’s my advice.” He said, leading Ripley down the corridor for the last time. “You’re a good kid at heart. You’ve a chance of a decent future. I’ve been here twenty years and I see folk like Williams from time to time. He’ll be in and out of psych wards for the rest of his life, you mark my words: just crazy enough to stay out of prison, but sane enough to make life hell for everyone around him. You don’t want to be a part of that.”

“You think going back to my father’s any better?” Ripley asked, an accusatory note creeping into his voice. Brian sighed.

“There’s nowt we can do about that, lad, you know that. You’ll be sixteen soon enough, and you can do what you like then.”

Even so, Ripley thought he saw Brian’s eyes narrow when he clocked Ripley’s parents sitting in the waiting room: Andrew Price stiff and angry; his wife, Maureen, so washed out she was barely present. Her words were slurred when she greeted him, and Ripley figured she was dosed up on Valium.

“John.” His father said shortly, with a face like thunder, and Ripley winced at the name. Even the staff at Whittingham had stopped calling him that long ago.

“Your boy’s a good lad, Mr Price.” Brian tried, rather helplessly. “He’ll need your support more than ever right now.”

Ripley’s father hadn’t said anything in reply. He was probably about ready to explode, Ripley thought. But he kept it all contained, more or less, until they got home. An hour later, and Ripley found himself locked in his childhood bedroom with a black eye, a split lip, and probably a fractured rib or two: less than divine retribution for the sin of attempting suicide. He’d cried, then, for the first time in months. To have his life given back to him only for it to disappear just as quickly? It was almost too much to bear.

For five awful days Ripley didn’t leave the house. He wrote letter after letter to David, but couldn’t even get out to post them. His window, he soon discovered, had been nailed shut while he was away. He broke one of the panes but it was too small to squeeze through, so all it got him was a slashed up hand and another sermon-cum-beating from his father. He tried screaming and shouting, kicking at the door in a fury. He tried silent acquiescence. Eventually he settled on his old favourite: quiet glaring defiance interspersed with regular sarcasm. None of these produced any relief: he was incarcerated just as securely as he had been at Whittingham, only far more isolated. On the fifth day, his bitter comeback to the Sunday morning selection of Old Testament fire and brimstone encouraged the first appearance of the belt, and it almost seemed like an old, familiar friend.

He’d forgotten how much it hurt, though, and he was rather relieved when there was a loud knocking at the door before his father got into full swing. Andrew Price paused, mid-strike, yelling for his wife to answer, but she was presumably too far gone to drag herself out of bed. After what seemed like a full minute of furious knocking, Ripley’s father threw down the belt with a snarl, turning for the hallway.

Ripley followed him, his heart hammering in his chest, barely daring to hope, knowing it would be dashed as it had been every time there was a knock at the door. His father, large as he was, blocked the doorway, so that Ripley couldn’t see anything at first. It was a few seconds before he heard David’s voice, and his stomach flipped.

“Mr Price, I presume? Is your son at home?” David’s well-spoken tones threw Andrew Price for a moment. He didn’t _sound_ like one of the delinquents his son usually associated with.

“Who the devil are you?” He said at last, although he still sounded flustered. Mr Price stepped back a little, so that Ripley could see David’s face, and he found himself grinning so hard his cheeks ached. David grinned back and Ripley’s father turned slightly, realizing that his son had followed him.

“I’m the boy who’s been fucking your son for the past year.” David smirked. “I’m surprised he hasn’t mentioned me.”

Ripley thought he would remember his father’s expression forever: Andrew Price, perhaps for the first time, was stunned into silent disbelief. His mouth opened and closed like a goldfish, and he staggered slightly, one hand on the wall.

“Ripley, sweetheart, get your things.” David said. Ripley wasn’t quite sure he dared walk away from the open door, and he hesitated.

“If you think I’m letting you drag my lad off into some den of vice, you’re very much mistaken!” Andrew was gearing up his anger again.

“It’s not like you ever wanted me here.” Ripley protested. “Why not just have rid of me, once and for all?” He got a backhander for that, despite the open doorway, flinging him against the wall.

“As if all your other sins weren’t enough, you add _sodomy_ to the list?!” His father shouted. He stood over Ripley, breathing hard, seemingly having forgotten about David for the moment. But David’s measured tones cut in once more.

“If you hurt him again, Mr Price, I’m afraid I won’t be answerable for my actions.” David’s voice was almost pleasant but when Ripley looked up, blinking through the pain, he was holding a knife. He looked confident, assured with his weapon, and when Andrew moved towards him slightly, he raised it immediately. Ripley had no doubt that he knew what he was doing with it. It was the first time he had seen David with a weapon but it wouldn’t be the last.

“You won’t use that, lad.” Andrew sounded confident, but Ripley knew he was rattled.

“You know I met your son in a mental hospital, right?” David’s tone was almost conversational. “Do you think it wise to call a madman’s bluff?” He stared right at Andrew, his gaze challenging and, much to Ripley’s surprise, eventually Andrew hung his head slightly. Was he defeated?

“Ripley, get your things.” David said again, a steely determination in his voice. Ripley staggered to his feet, running for the stairs. He didn’t dare leave it too long, just in case Andrew recovered. He’d never unpacked his bag from the hospital, and that was all he grabbed now. He didn’t need mementoes from his childhood. He was leaving now for a new life, just as they’d planned. He paused for a second, remembering the never-posted letters shoved under his mattress. In the end, he simply dragged them out and threw them on the bed. That would give his bastard father something to think about!

No one seemed to have moved when Ripley thundered back down to the bottom of the stairs; the pair were still frozen in a tableau of menace. Ripley shoved past his father, half expecting to be grabbed and pulled back at the last minute so that he passed David too, diving down the path out of arm’s reach. David took a few steps back to stand beside him, lowering the knife a little, although his eyes were still fixed on Ripley’s father.

“John!” Andrew tried once again. He sounded broken, suddenly. “I only ever wanted to save you.” Ripley shook his head in disbelief, angered by his father’s plaintive tones. But then he felt David’s hand on his arm and he turned, his face breaking into a smile. There was a spark of mischief in David’s eyes and he put his hand on the back of Ripley’s neck, tilting his face towards him and bending his own head to bring their lips together. Ripley felt David’s tongue flick against his mouth, and he parted his lips, kissing David fervently for several short seconds.

He wondered if those seconds seemed like years to Andrew Price, still frozen on the doorstep, watching his son deep in embrace with his gay lover. When Ripley pulled away, they both turned to look at him: David grinning, Ripley frowning. There was anger and disgust in Andrew Price’s expression, certainly, but also sorrow – maybe even regret. Well, it was too fucking late for that! Ripley thought furiously. But then David squeezed Ripley’s hand, blew Ripley’s father an insolent kiss, and turned to lead Ripley away.


	2. Sentimental Attachment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ripley and David get it on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While WIPmonth is in progress, I thought I also might as well finish posting something I completed years ago...

Ripley was early to meet David at the Jolly Roger. He wanted to check there was no one he knew around and find a good, well-hidden location in the huge, busy tavern. There was some special on jagerbombs that night and the hen and stag parties were lined up three deep at the bar. Eventually, Ripley got himself a pint and a whiskey chaser and then was lucky enough to slide into a booth in a quiet corner just as a group of drunken lads staggered out of it.

He ended up knocking the whiskey back right away, too nervous for it to be much of a chaser. He caught the eye of a fat Scouser with dyed red hair as he glanced around, and was glad of something to occupy his time when she came over to him.

“What are you doing all alone, gorgeous?” She slurred. A pink sash over her shoulder proclaimed her to be one of ‘Abi’s Birds’. Ripley could see Abi about ten feet away, her veil slipping off her head as she stuck her tongue down the throat of a man he guessed was very much _not_ her fiancé.

“I was waiting for someone.” Ripley automatically turned on the charm. “But maybe I’ve just found her.”

She giggled throatily, squeezing herself into the booth beside him. “I’m Shirley.”

“Ripley.”

“You sound local.” Shirley observed. “I didn’t think the locals came here.”

“Well then, it’s your lucky night, isn’t it?” He leaned in closer to her. A figure loomed over them, and they both looked up.

“Still one for the ladies, eh Ripley?” David was smirking from the other side of the table.

“Fuck off, la!” Shirley retorted, with the eloquence of the drunk. “Can’t you see we’re busy?”

“Ah, I can see the attraction.” Ignoring the redhead’s outburst, David sat down on the other side of Ripley, thumping down the two pints he was holding. “Do carry on, I wouldn’t want to interrupt your scintillating conversation.” He waved a hand, rather camply.

Ripley rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help but laugh.

“I don’t remember conversation ever being _your_ strong point either when you were in the mood.” He pointed out. David’s grin widened.

“Well you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you sweetheart?” He winked, looking rather smug at the ease with which he’d got Ripley’s attention. Shirley got the message but Ripley didn’t much care – that was the point of meeting in a tourist pub, after all.

“You might have told me you was queer!” She got up, huffing rather dramatically.

“Queer? Hey, do I look like I’m good with colours??” Ripley called after her. David chuckled, sliding into the booth beside Ripley and Ripley felt the warmth of a hand on his thigh.

“Actually, you always were a snappy dresser, baby.”

Ripley shrugged, drinking a good inch of the pint David had brought him.

“But you’re not just hanging out with me to look good, are you David? Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

“All in good time.” David leaned back, regarding Ripley thoughtfully. It was immediately obvious what he was thinking.

“Good time meaning when you’ve got laid, I suppose.” He suggested. David laughed again, squeezing Ripley’s thigh.

“You remember me well.”

“Ripley!” A shout rang out from the crowd. Ripley jumped guiltily, practically flinging himself away from David. “Ripley Holden, I never expected to see you here!” It was Jim Albright, the local policeman who was part of Ripley’s close circle of compatriots.

“Shit!” Ripley muttered under his breath as Albright rapidly approached, sitting down opposite them, all perma-tan and white teeth.

“What are you doing in a shithole like this, Albright?” Ripley asked, projecting confidence.

“Had to check it out for a case. Nothing major: seemed to be a tourist disagreement that’s unlikely to be repeated. Thought I’d better keep an eye on the place over the occasional drink, though, just in case.” Albright grimaced. “The shitty beer makes it a bit of a chore!”

“It is that.” Ripley agreed, taking a gulp of his pint all the same.

“But what brings _you_ here, Ripley?” Albright asked, genuinely puzzled.

“Well, I’ve shagged all the local birds, haven’t I?” Ripley grinned. “Sometimes a man can do with a bit of variety.” David snorted, and Ripley shot him a glare. Jim didn’t appear to notice, taking David’s contribution as a reminder to introduce himself. He held his hand out amiably.

“Jim Albright.” He said firmly. “And you are?”

“David Britten.” David said, just as confidently, shaking Albright’s hand. Ripley wondered how many pseudonyms David had had over the years.

“Old friend of Ripley’s?” Albright wondered. David nodded.

“That’s right. I’ve not seen him since we were kids. Happened to be passing through Blackpool, so I thought it’d be nice to see what the years have done to him.”

“Ripley as a kid, eh?” Albright leaned forward, looking rather too interested for Ripley’s comfort. “I’ll bet he was a mad bastard!” David raised an eyebrow.

“In a manner of speaking.” He was smirking again. Ripley decided this was a good moment to change the subject.

“David’s staying in Blackpool for business.” Had he hoped being forced to account for himself would make _David_ uncomfortable, Ripley was sorely mistaken.

“Oh aye, and what do you do?” Albright enquired.

“Loss adjustor for an insurance company.” David lied smoothly, with the mildly apologetic tones of someone who knew their job was an immediate conversation killer. “Nothing so exciting as a family entertainment entrepreneur!”

“You told him about the Casino Hotel, right?” Albright turned to Ripley. “We could use another investor or two.” Ripley shrugged.

“If you’re volunteering to halve your own profits, maybe.” He downed the rest of his pint rather rapidly. Albright nodded towards the empty glass.

“Another, lads?” He asked. Ripley shook his head.

“Tempting as a pint of piss may be, I promised I’d show David that empty bedsit behind the arcade. He’s looking for a cheap place to crash. We’ve spent too much time catching up already!” Albright pulled a face, looking at David.

“There’s cheap places and there’s health hazards. You’d really put a friend up in that shithole?”

“I’m not fussy.” David shrugged casually. “A roof over my head and a firm mattress is all I need.”

“And someone to share it with, eh?” Albright flashed him a grin. Ripley pointedly ignored David’s attempt to catch his eye, not that Jim would have noticed anyway. He got to his feet.

“Come on then, before these lot start stampeding for last orders.”

“Good to meet you, David.” Albright shook David’s hand again. “I’m sure I’ll see you again if you’re in town for a bit.” David nodded, flashing Albright another grin and then followed Ripley out of the bar. He nudged Ripley as they strolled out towards the promenade.

“Well, this hazardous bedsit of yours sounds delightfully romantic.” He chuckled. Ripley shrugged.

“I thought you wanted a shag. Not rose petals and Egyptian cotton.” He sounded sullen, but there was a twinkle in his eye.

“True, true. And I’m guessing it’s close, at least.”

It took a mere few minutes for the pair to walk back to the arcade, following the alley round behind it to the crumbling terrace. Hayley, the prostitute who rented out the front bedsit, was leaning against the wall having a fag. She looked from Ripley to David for a moment and back again.

“I’m letting out that empty room at the back.” Ripley explained, when she didn’t say anything. “David – Hayley, Hayley – David. Your new neighbour.”

“You’re letting a room at this time of night??” Hayley laughed. Ripley pulled a face.

“Well, those in this block keep all hours, you know that. Best to have a neighbour that doesn’t care what you get up to, eh?” Hayley shrugged.

“If you say so. I’m off to work, any road.” She ground her cigarette out under her heel, and strolled off down the path. Ripley pushed the front door open, leading David down a narrow passageway that smelt faintly of damp. He fished the keys out of his pocket, opening the far door, opposite Hayley’s.

“Here you are. May not look like much, but the bed’s not bad – and this room even has a view!” He gestured at the overgrown garden that was just about visible through the grimy window.

“You don’t have to sell me the flat, remember?” David laughed. He stepped in through the doorway of the cramped room, his long legs reaching the bed in just two strides. He threw himself down on it. “Anyway, it’s better than that squat we had after Whittingham.”

“I liked that squat.” Ripley sounded almost wistful. “First home I ever had. First place I felt safe.” He kicked the door shut behind him, taking one step towards the bed. David tilted his head.

“Feeling nostalgic, sweetheart?” He asked. “I can take you back to those days in more ways than one.” He held out a hand. Swallowing hard, Ripley took another step towards him, letting David’s hand brush over the front of his shirt.

“And then you’ll tell me what’s going on, yeah?” Ripley watched as David’s fingers untucked the bottom of his shirt, and then shivered slightly as they met the skin beneath.

“All in good time.” David murmured. And then his hands met at the small of Ripley’s back, pulling him towards him. Ripley stumbled a little, half falling onto the mattress beside David. David ran a hand through his hair, tilting Ripley’s face towards his own. He gazed into Ripley’s eyes, and Ripley felt a sharp tug at his heartstrings.

Then David kissed him again, his fingers tightening on the back of Ripley’s neck, holding him close. Ripley found himself kissing back just as eagerly, his hands on David’s body now. The size and shape of David’s body through his clothes felt unfamiliar: a broad chest, firm muscular legs that he could just feel the warmth of through David’s jeans. Ripley sighed a little into the kiss, and David’s throat vibrated in a chuckle. He drew away, lips wet, eyes still fixed on Ripley’s as he began to unbutton Ripley’s shirt.

Their legs were entwined now, lower bodies pressed against each other. Ripley could tell that David was already half hard, and he felt a corresponding warmth in his own groin. David pulled Ripley’s shirt aside, bending his head forward, and his tongue met Ripley’s nipple, circling it slowly and then flicking across it. Ripley groaned a little, relaxing onto his back, as David moved down his body. He felt David’s fingers on his jeans: first his belt, then his fly, and he closed his eyes for a second.

Ripley opened his eyes again to see David’s head moving downward, and a moment later felt the warmth of his breath on the head of his cock, then David’s tongue licking one wet swathe up the shaft. Ripley groaned again, his cock fully erect now, bouncing a little at David’s attentions.

“Christ…” He murmured, almost in disbelief that this was happening. And then David’s lips closed around his cock and he hitched a breath. David was unbuttoning his own shirt as he fellated Ripley, but Ripley wasn’t aware of anything but his erection pulsing in David’s throat, even when David tugged his trousers down around his knees. His breathing quickened, pleasure coursing through his body.

“Oh God, oh…” He babbled, thrusting his hips urgently to push his cock against David’s mouth.

And then David let Ripley’s moist cock slip from between his lips, sitting back on his heels and regarding Ripley thoughtfully for a moment.

“Christ, don’t stop now!” Ripley complained, half pleading, half angry. David was wriggling out of his jeans, his own cock bouncing erect from his underpants.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, but you know I’ve been itching to fuck you.” David smirked. He pulled the trousers bunched around Ripley’s knees off over his feet. Ripley swallowed, feeling helpless for a moment, torn between a desperate desire for David and a nervous anxiety about what was to come. David reached for his coat, fishing out a sachet of lube. He coated his fingers as Ripley watched. “I imagine it’s been a while, so I’ll be gentle.” Ripley found his voice at last.

“There’s condoms in my wallet.” He said. “I can guess what you’ve been up to for the last twenty odd years!”

David shrugged, but he did as Ripley asked. Then he gestured lube-slick fingers at Ripley, who obligingly rolled over onto his front. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting out just a tiny gasp when he felt David’s fingers slide down the crack of his arse, rubbing back and forth across the entrance for a moment. He felt just as nervous as when first they’d done it, a few months into their time at Whittingham.

The friendship had very quickly become sexual. David was always angling for that, of course, even though Ripley had rather stupidly not realised when they first met. Brian assumed that David manipulated Ripley into it, although the staff never gleaned enough direct evidence of their sexual relationship to quite put a stop to it. The truth of it was that Ripley was a horny teenager, and really quite open to experimenting. When David first went down on him, he knew right away it wasn’t going to be a one-off. He was shut in Whittingham for God knows how long, after all. He might as well do something to pass the time!

Still, it had taken all of David’s considerable persuasive powers to get Ripley to let him bugger him. Although Ripley was already half in love with David by that point, which was probably what made him cave in the end. Brian and Rueben were both away, so there came one afternoon when there were only agency nurses on the ward, who weren’t aware of the unofficial ruling that David wasn’t supposed to be left alone with anyone. They’d paid Bill in cigarettes to watch out for them, though Ripley suspected the other lads were only too happy to oblige, since David’s interest in Ripley kept them all relatively safe from his unwanted attentions.

Ripley gasped, so lost in his memories that it was a bit of a shock when David slid a greased finger past the resisting ring of muscle, right up to the knuckle. It wasn’t painful really, or even unpleasant, just not a feeling he was used to any more. David drew his hand back, and the second time he pushed in two fingers, bending them a little as he pulled them back again. That first time they’d used shower gel, which had been messy but did the job. Ripley had been surprised how much he enjoyed it in the end. From then on, they’d done it whenever they had an opportunity. Usually – though not always – David took the active part. Another example of David relishing being in charge of Ripley, he supposed.

This was probably why David was so determined to fuck him now. It wasn’t long before David removed his fingers with a slight squelch, and Ripley tensed slightly as he felt the head of David’s cock press insistently against his arsehole. David gasped a little as he pushed forward, his hands gripping Ripley’s shoulders firmly.

“Mmm, I’d forgotten how good you felt…” He murmured. He’d stopped moving, his erection firmly embedded in Ripley’s arsehole. Ripley could feel every inch of it and, as David waited, letting Ripley get used to the sensation, he felt a warmth spread through him, right through to his groin. He pushed his hips back slightly and David took this as an invitation to start moving again, quite gently at first. One firmer push hit the spot, brushing tantalizing against it, so that Ripley gasped, pushing himself up onto his knees to pull David deeper.

“Harder, you bastard! Christ, David, when did you get to be so fucking gentle?” David chuckled.

“Just easing you into it, sweetheart.” But he obliged, thrusting into Ripley with more energy. He gripped Ripley’s hips now, hanging onto him to force his cock deeper, and Ripley groaned, his body responding.

“Oh, that’s it. Jesus Christ, that’s it!” His skin felt hot, his entire being throbbing with pent up orgasm.

“Tell me what you want.” David panted. Another game, but Ripley was well beyond caring.

“Fuck me – oh David, fuck me!” He gasped. David was fair pounding into him now, and it ought to have hurt but it didn’t, the maddening itch of his prostate building and building, so that he was so close to orgasm he could barely even think.

David groaned, and then bit off the sound with a sharp hiss, a noise that brought a host of memories flooding back. He clung onto Ripley, thrusting deep one last time and Ripley was tipped over the edge, his body spasming, muscles clenching around David’s cock.

“Oh David, David…” He didn’t even realise the sound was coming from him as orgasm swept through him, shaking his body until he collapsed, spent, on the old mattress.

David kissed his hair, almost fondly, relaxing down beside Ripley and throwing an arm around him.

“Maybe I missed you more than I realized.” He murmured. Ripley snorted, despite his post-orgasm lethargy.

“You murder someone just to get me back into bed and you think that’s _not_ a sign of desperation?”

“You wait till you hear the full story, baby.” David laughed, despite the unpleasant context to his words. He rolled over and reached for his cigarettes, fishing one out and then offering the packet to Ripley. He lit Ripley’s first.

They both lay there for a moment, smoking in companionable post-coital silence. And then Ripley’s mobile buzzed angrily. He reached for it almost without thinking.

“Leave it.” David was frowning. Ripley shook his head.

“I can’t – what if it’s one of me kids?” He checked the screen. Danny. Sighing, he held a finger to his lips, staring pointedly at his partner for a moment. David raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

“Danny? What’s up?” Ripley answered smoothly. There was a long pause. “Hey, slow down lad! Look, don’t let ‘em get to you… Okay, okay!” He paused again. “Look, I’ll come and get you. Just tell me where you are.” Another pause. “Ten minutes, max. Just sit tight, lad.” He hung up the phone, grimacing a little, and then reached for his trousers.

“So you’re just going to love me and leave me?” David said, pouting mockingly. Ripley sighed.

“It’s my lad, he’s been in a fight or something. Couldn’t get much out of him on the phone, he’s not that coherent at 2 o’clock in the morning.” David watched Ripley dress, looking thoughtful.

“Something tells me you’re not a bad father.” He said eventually.

“As you know, I had someone to teach me all the mistakes to avoid.” Ripley’s voice was tinged with bitterness, as it always was when he mentioned his father. David nodded, but he didn’t answer. Ripley got to his feet, throwing the keys down on the bed.

“Stay here, make yourself at home.” He said, trying to avoid looking too closely at David’s naked body stretched across the bed, reminding him of how much he _didn’t_ want to leave. “I’ll swing by tomorrow afternoon, we can talk then.”

“Till tomorrow, lover boy.” David said with a grin. And he winked, a move that seemed rather like a calculated reminder of their first meeting, but gave Ripley butterflies all the same.

When Ripley reached the front door, it was open. Hayley was back, sitting on the doorstep smoking. She raised an eyebrow at Ripley as he passed.

“And I thought it was just me as paid rent like that.” She was laughing. Ripley glowered, in too much of a hurry to be charming.

“You fucking tell anyone and you won’t have a flat to pay rent _on_!” He threatened. She laughed again, watching him hurry off into the distance.

*

The next morning, weak autumn sunlight filtered through the dirty glass of the bedsit window. David watched for a while, and then decided he’d be better off getting some fresh air outside. He dressed quickly but fastidiously, not neglecting to shave and check his hair.

It was nearly ten by the time he headed out. He sat on the front wall, smoking cigarette after cigarette, until Hayley appeared.

“David, isn’t it?” She asked. He nodded, but didn’t answer. “Want a cuppa?” David smirked knowingly.

“Ah, that well-known precursor to gossip!” He commented. Hayley grinned, but didn’t say anything. “Add a biscuit to the mix and you’ve got me.”

Hayley was back not long after, with two mugs of sugary tea and a packet of bourbons. She handed David the mug.

“I wasn’t sure how you liked it.” She half-apologised. David shrugged.

“I had tea pre-mixed long enough to drink it any which way.” He said. Hayley wasn’t sure what he meant, but she let it go. David drank a mouthful of tea, sighed with enjoyment, and took a biscuit when Hayley proffered the packet.

“So, how long have you known Ripley Holden?” She asked at last.

“We’re childhood… friends.” David said at last. Hayley raised an eyebrow.

“Sounded to me like you was more than friends.” She commented. David grinned.

“Well, maybe the word I was searching for was sweethearts.” Hayley didn’t seem to know how seriously to take this. David looked at her over the mug. “I take it you’re not going to go spreading this around?” He asked. Hayley shook her head.

“More than the roof over me head’s worth!” She pointed out. “I just enjoy hearing about it, is all. Never in a million years did I think I’d be seeing a punter out and hear Ripley Holden screaming some feller’s name through the wall!” She laughed.

“Oh, I intend to make him scream a lot more, believe me.” David put the mug down to light a cigarette. “I trust it won’t keep you up at night.” Hayley grinned, rather warming to him.

“I’ve got plenty else to keep me busy.” She pointed out. David offered her the cigarette packet and she took one, pausing a moment as she lit it. “He’s not a bad man, Ripley Holden. But I always knew he had a messed up past.”

“You’re suggesting that’s all I am?” David was mock offended. Hayley shook her head.

“No, but you know I’m right, don’t you?” There was a short pause, and then David nodded.

“Maybe that’s why I was drawn to him. You’d think I could let go after all these years.” He almost sounded wistful. But Hayley was practiced in seeing through her punters’ bullshit, and she rather thought he might be manipulating her, at least a little bit.

“Are you telling me you’re in love with him?” She snorted disbelievingly. David grinned then, catching her eye over the mug and keeping it.

“I never said that. But whether he’s still in love with me is another matter.” He paused for a second. “How far do you think I can push that?” His grin was almost cruel for a moment and Hayley frowned, but it was gone as quickly as it came. David stood up, putting the empty mug down on the step.

“Thanks for the tea, neighbour.” He smiled, quite charmingly, and then turned and stalked away.


	3. Leverage

The arcade was back open. Ripley had spent the morning sorting out yesterday’s problems (with both Danny and the business) and was now loitering on the arcade floor with Jim and Terry, casting the occasional glance over the punters and chatting casually.

Shyanne dropped by, all smiles and big eyes.

“Dad, I’ve got the afternoon off college. Me and Steve are planning on driving up to Cleveleys. I don’t suppose you could give us a bit of spending money?”

“Can’t that useless boyfriend of yours put his hand in his pocket for once?” Ripley said mock grudgingly. He hadn’t met Steve, but could imagine what he’d be like: all tattoos and attitude. “I thought he was working! Or has he got himself fired like the last deadbeat you were seeing?” Shyanne laughed.

“He’s not like that, dad.” She protested, but she could see Ripley was already pulling out his wallet, so she didn’t push it further. Ripley peeled off a couple of twenties, and handed them over to Shyanne. Fate must have been playing games with him, because somehow, out of all the receipts and tickets and useless bits of paper in his wallet, it was the photo of him and David that slipped out and fluttered to the floor.

Shyanne scooped it up before Ripley could.

“That’s never you, dad! You must be younger than me in this!” She tilted the photo round, staring at it a moment longer. Terry craned round to take a look.

“Your dad was quite a looker as a kid, eh Shyanne?” He offered.

“Hey, less of the ‘was’!” Ripley protested. “Now if you’ve quite finished eyeing me up, Terry…” He held out his hand for the picture.

“Who’s the other lad?” Shyanne asked, glancing up at Ripley. Terry, who thought of himself as Ripley’s oldest friend, shook his head, puzzled.

“I don’t recognise him.” He said. “You didn’t stay in touch then, Ripley?” Jim Albright, who’d been quiet throughout this exchange, was leaning forward now, taking in the photograph.

“It’s David, isn’t it?” He said, which caused Ripley’s heart to sink and Shyanne and Terry’s frowns to deepen.

“You know him, Jim?” Terry turned to the policeman, confused. Jim shook his head.

“I met him yesterday, is all. Childhood friend of Ripley’s. He’s visiting, and Ripley’s put him up in one of the flats out back.”

“ _Dad_!” Shyanne sounded horrified. “You’d put a _friend_ up there? We’ve got a perfectly good guest room at home.” Ripley shook his head.

“David’s got work to do in town. He wanted somewhere central.” He said shortly.

“Speak of the devil.” Jim said suddenly, and Ripley looked up to see David marching smartly towards them, a grin plastered over his handsome face.

“Well, this looks cosy!” He said. He flashed a smile at each of them in turn, ending with Shyanne. “You must be Ripley’s daughter. How delightful to meet you.” He took her hand in a gesture that Ripley thought ridiculously over the top, though he could tell from Shyanne’s response that she found it alluring.

“What are you doing here, David?” He asked, trying not to sound obviously confrontational. David grinned.

“Lovely to see you too, Ripley dear.” Clearly David hadn’t missed the irritation that had crept into Ripley’s tone. “Feeling a bit sore after last night?” He smirked. Ripley knew full well what he was getting at – the unfamiliar ache in his guts only underscored it – but he forced a laugh.

“We didn’t drink that much! Bit of a lightweight these days, eh David?” He teased.

“You knew me dad when he was a kid, right?” Shyanne interrupted. “You’ll have to come over for dinner, tell us all the horror stories!” She laughed, rather flirtatiously. David grinned again, wider this time.

“Oh, I have plenty of those, believe me!”

Ripley rolled his eyes, putting a hand on Shyanne’s arm.

“Enough with the gossip, Shyanne. You’ll waste your afternoon in Cleveleys if you don’t get going.” He reminded her. She shrugged and nodded.

“See you soon then, David. I’ll let mum know about dinner!” Shyanne’s parting words were called back to them down the arcade. Ripley sighed, frustrated, but Terry was now busy causing another problem.

“You want to join us tonight, David. We’re off down Aphrodite’s at 10, all the lads.” He said amiably.

“Aphrodite’s isn’t really David’s thing.” Ripley cut in, wondering why the hell everyone seemed so interested in David.

“He’s a man, isn’t he?” Jim laughed.

“Let’s just say he’d be more at home in Flamingos.” Ripley said meaningfully. Jim looked rather taken aback, and both he and Terry looked at David appraisingly. David didn’t know the club names these days, but he could catch the drift.

“You mean I’m a massive fucking queer?” He interpreted, with a grin. And then he shrugged. “I can appreciate a female figure all the same.” He glanced round again, aware that all three were now looking uncomfortable. “Aphrodite’s it is! Later, gentlemen.”

He stalked out without another word. Ripley was seething, and had half a mind to go right round to the flats and set David straight (as it were).

“Is that why the two of you fell out?” Terry said quietly. “You found out he was a poof?” Ripley wondered if Terry was re-evaluating the photograph now.

“Who said we fell out?” He retorted.

“Well, you haven’t mentioned him in 20 years!” Terry pointed out. “ _Something_ must have happened.”

“We lost touch, is all.” Ripley said dismissively. “He knows to keep his hands to himself.”

“Sounds about right.” Jim commented, relaxing a little. “I can imagine the state of the poor bugger if he tried it on with you!” He clapped Ripley on the back, laughing. Ripley forced a laugh as well. He needed to find out what David wanted from him, and fast! All this – meeting his friends, his family – it was just leverage. And he really didn’t want David getting any more.

*

The afternoon got busy in the end, and Ripley didn’t have the time to get to the flats. He tried in the early evening, before going home for dinner, but David wasn’t in. Neither, thankfully, was Hayley, so at least that was one awkward conversation he didn’t need to have. Dinner, however, was a singularly unpleasant experience. Shyanne talked at great length about meeting David, clearly fascinated both by the handsome stranger and the idea of finding out about her father’s youth. She pestered and pestered until Ripley had to show all of them the photo, which Natalie agreed was rather sweet – “you look very close, the pair of you!” She insisted Ripley invite David over the following day, and even Danny seemed vaguely interested in the prospect of meeting him. Ripley was rather glad to get out to the club in the end.

He had a vague hope that David simply wouldn’t show: all he’d wanted was to put the wind up Ripley, and he’d done that well enough already. And the strip club would bore him, Ripley knew. But he was there, loitering outside with a cigarette, when Ripley showed up. Ripley sighed, but he said.

“The others not here?”

“I don’t know.” David shrugged. “Haven’t been in yet.”

“You don’t have to do this, David.” Ripley insisted. “You won’t enjoy the view. Why not go back to the flat and I’ll swing by later?”

“There’s other things to look at than what’s on stage.” David leered a little, looking Ripley up and down. “Those trousers are tight, baby. Did you dress up for me?”

“In your wet dreams, David.” Ripley tried not to doubt himself. He hadn’t, had he? No, he’d known this was going to be excruciating enough without _trying_ to give David a hard-on!

It was actually _more_ excruciating than Ripley had even imagined. David’s incessant hints and nudges were just subtle enough to slide over his friends’ heads – most of them, at least – but to make Ripley so uncomfortable he couldn’t even enjoy the show. And David picked up everything – every tiny movement was met with a knowing grin (“feeling uncomfortable, baby?”). He tried confronting David once, as David emerged from the toilets.

“David, this is fucking idiotic! You do realise how suspicious this is, right? You suddenly show up in town after decades away, at the same time as a body’s left in my arcade… it’s only a matter of time before the police pull you in for questioning. And not very much time at that!”

David didn’t seem to care. But then that was David all over. He thought he could get away with anything, and the worst of it was he was usually right.

In the end, all Ripley could do was drink. And he could drink a hell of a lot.

“I don’t know what’s got into him!” Terry lamented, as he and David dragged Ripley away from an altercation over spilt drinks that was threatening to get violent. “I’ve not seen him this bad in years!” He sighed, trying to steer Ripley back to the booth and away from the bar. “We can’t send him home like this. Natalie will do her nut!” He sighed. He really didn’t want Ripley staying at his, but it was starting to seem like the only option.

“I could take him to crash at the flat.” David suggested. “He can go home in the morning when he’s sobered up.” Terry looked hesitant. But Jim had already left over Ripley’s behaviour, and Terry’s support for his friend was dwindling. “I promise I won’t take advantage of him!” David added, throwing his hands up with a reassuring smile. Terry flushed a little.

“I wasn’t insinuating…” He protested, rather emptily, as that was just what he had been thinking. David’s obvious awareness of this embarrassed him out of his concern, and he made his decision.

“Where to now, lads?” Ripley was trying to get up, but he couldn’t really stand.

“I’m going home.” Terry said, quietly but nonetheless decisively.

“Home?” Ripley echoed in disbelief. “You can’t go _home_ , Terry you fucking fairy! It’s not even closing time!”

“Well, I’ve had enough and so have you!” Terry retorted. “David’s taking you back to the flat. Okay?”

“What do you think, Ripley?” David added. “A nightcap and a jaunt down memory lane?” Ripley frowned a little, and then he tried to take a step forward and staggered into David’s arms.

“Memory lane.” He murmured.

That was all the agreement they got out of him, but it was enough for Terry. He helped David get Ripley into a taxi to the arcade, and then David hauled the now barely conscious Ripley round to the flats.

“Rohypnol, is it?” Hayley joked when she saw them. “Having to drug him to have your way with him now?” David, who was straining under Ripley’s weight, didn’t laugh for once.

“Shut up and give me a hand.”

When they finally got Ripley into the flat and threw him down on the bed, he went out like a light.

*

Ripley woke feeling like there was a drill hammering through his skull. He groaned, rolling over slightly. There was a warm body beside him, but when he tried to open his eyes the light was like a sharp spike into his brain. He closed them hastily.

“Ah, conscious at last?” He heard David chuckle. He groaned slightly. Well, given the events of the previous two days it was _bound_ to be David next to him.

“Barely.” He felt David’s body shift, one hand resting on his naked back.

“Well, I don’t need you to do much more than lie there.” David murmured, kissing Ripley’s shoulder.

“Jesus, you’re eager!” Ripley protested, though without much energy. “Didn’t you get any yesterday?”

“I don’t suppose you remember passing out the moment we got back here?” David’s body pressed against Ripley’s, spooning him. He could feel David’s hard-on against his buttocks.

“I didn’t think you’d let a little thing like that stop you.” Ripley’s tone was amused, despite himself. “You _have_ changed!” David chuckled.

“You were so far gone I thought you might choke on your own vomit.” He admitted. “Call it a moment of weakness.” He ran one hand down Ripley’s side, and Ripley shivered slightly.

“Is your newfound interest in foreplay part of the same weakness?” Ripley teased, but his body was responding to David’s touch all the same. He was always horny when he had a hangover. David’s hand reached Ripley’s arse, spreading his buttocks carefully and running his fingers down the crack. His breath was warm on Ripley’s cheek, his words soft.

“You’d prefer it if I just _took_ you, lover?” When Ripley didn’t answer, David shoved two fingers rather abruptly up his arsehole. Ripley gasped, despite himself.

“With lube, you animal!” He complained. David laughed again, and Ripley felt his body shift behind him. A moment later, he was back, and Ripley heard the slight squelch as he greased his penis. He licked his lips, mouth dry with anticipation as David withdrew his fingers, parting Ripley’s buttocks to let the head of his cock nudge between them.

“You like to be fucked hard, don’t you darling?” David hissed, and then he penetrated Ripley, his erection sliding smoothly, deep into Ripley’s guts. One hand on Ripley’s hip, the pair still lying on their sides, David started moving slowly, rocking back and forth inside Ripley. It was enjoyable enough but, in his hungover haze, Ripley wanted more.

“You’re not quite there!” He protested. “I need… need…” He felt urgently in want of orgasm, now: feverishly so, as if it was the only thing that could cure his alcohol-induced lethargy.

“Try lifting your knees a bit, sweetheart.” David suggested. “Better angle.” Ripley did as David told him, and David’s hand reached over his body as he did so, fingers closing around Ripley’s erection. Ripley moaned faintly, the sensation building now, heightened by the pleasure of David’s hand around his cock. He wouldn’t last long, he knew.

Eyes still tight shut, Ripley reached behind him to try and grasp at David’s body, spurring David on to speed his thrusts, pounding into him. Lights seemed to flash and spin before his eyes – probably an after-effect of drinking – as the pleasure mounted. And then his cock jumped and spat in David’s hand, his muscles contracting, wringing an orgasm out of David.

He realised afterwards, as David withdrew, that he hadn’t used a condom this time. He could feel the sticky warmth of David’s semen trickling from between his buttocks but he was too hungover to care. He groaned again, rolling over into the pillow, utterly spent. David kissed the top of his head.

“I’ll get you a cuppa and a bacon sarnie, baby.” He said.

“Ah, domestic bliss. You really _have_ changed!” Ripley murmured into the pillow. He heard David dressing, dimly as if in the distance, and then the sound of the door.

Had David changed? Or maybe it was simply that the last fractured year of their relationship had coloured the rest of it in Ripley’s memory. Because it had been David who had found them that room in the squat. He’d even done his best to furnish it before Ripley arrived, and presented it to Ripley with something like pride.

It was an old B&B, half derelict, but the many small rooms made it easy to divide up among the various beatniks, anarchists and destitutes that inhabited it. The place had been damp, cold and dirty. The water company had forgotten to ever turn the water off, but the electricity siphoning one of the more experienced squatters had set up only worked downstairs so it was always cold. But they had a roof over their heads, and an old mattress to lie on. They hardly left it for the first three days.

Ripley grinned to himself, remembering their youthful enthusiasm for each other’s bodies. That first morning he had been exhausted, though. He had hardly slept since he’d left Whittingham: lying there in David’s arms was the first time he’d felt safe enough to close his eyes and then he’d slept like the dead, well into the next day. David had woken him soon after noon with a polystyrene cup of tea and a kiss, and he could still remember the rush of feeling that stirred up in him to see David there. His face had split into a grin, so impossibly huge it hurt his face. He hadn’t said anything, but his thoughts had been so fervent that for a moment he wondered if David could hear him all the same: _Christ, I_ fucking _love you!_

He sighed into the pillow, enjoying the memory despite finding it tainted by what had followed. At the time, he had adored David, pure and simple. He had never even considered why David had rescued him, never wondered what David’s agenda might be. Now he knew what David was like, he found himself analysing every moment, working out how each tiny action of David’s might have been intended to manipulate him. But perhaps he’d gone too far the other way. Maybe a cup of tea and a kiss was simply that.

It was with mixed feelings that Ripley took the cardboard cup that David offered him on his return, propping himself up on the pillows. He watched silently as David stripped his clothes off and slid back into bed beside him, and then he took a gulp of tea and sighed contentedly.

“Not too sweet?” David asked, with a grin. Ripley shook his head, knowing what David was getting at. It was a legacy of Whittingham, that they both had a taste for sweet tea. Ripley had a feeling that, by the ‘70s, there was a lot more freedom in the adult wards than there had been. But the adolescents still weren’t trusted to serve their own tea: instead it came lukewarm, pre-mixed with milk and sugar in big institutional teapots. It was always too weak, always too sweet, but in the end you got used to it.

David passed Ripley a sandwich wrapped in greaseproof paper, and they lay there in companionable silence for a while: breakfast, followed by a cigarette and the last of the tea. Then David said, suddenly and unexpectedly.

“Stay with me today.” There was a pleading undertone to his voice. “We can go out somewhere. Drive up the coast, maybe. It’ll be like old times.” Ripley frowned.

“I can’t, David. It’s Sunday. I got to open up, then dinner with the family.” He stopped short of issuing Natalie’s invitation. Despite David’s change in mood, he didn’t think he was quite ready for the experience.

“Just the morning then.” David suggested. “I’d like to see what they’ve done to the old hospital, and there’ll be no builders there on a Sunday.” He paused for a second, then flashed Ripley a winning smile. “It’s warm enough to fuck in the grounds. For old time’s sake.” Ripley laughed, half won over.

“Another day, perhaps.” He lit up another cigarette. There was a long pause.

“You were right last night.” David said at last, his voice unusually serious. “I can’t stay here with the cops sniffing around. I’ll be here two more days – three max. Not much time to reminisce.” Ripley nodded, taking this in, but he didn’t answer directly.

“Where will you go?” He asked. David grinned, then.

“Where do you think? Vegas, baby!” Ripley smiled, slightly sadly. They’d planned that trip for so long, back in the day, but never made it out of the country. Their first step had been London, and that had ended badly. “I’ve been out there a few times.” David continued. “Got some good contacts. But it’s easier to hustle with a partner, you know that. And I’ve never found anyone quite as good as you.” Ripley rolled his eyes a little, aware what David was getting at but oddly tempted all the same.

“So that’s why you’re here? To drag me off to Vegas?” It didn’t quite ring true to him. David shrugged his shoulders.

“That’s part of it, yeah.” His face was serious again. “Look, go and open up the arcade and then come out to Whittingham with me, just for a few hours. I’ll tell you the whole story.”

Despite himself, Ripley caved. This was why he’d had to walk out on David in the end. David could always get round him somehow, even when Ripley was aware he was being manipulated.

They’d dressed quickly. Ripley grimaced a little as he tugged on his trousers, still feeling rather sticky. He could have done with a shower, but that would have to wait. He made himself as presentable as he could over the tiny sink in the corner.

“You want to negotiate on terms, David.” Hayley laughed as the pair left the building together. “That rent’s getting pretty steep!”

“First time was just the deposit.” Ripley retorted, and she laughed again. He sent David for a walk on the seafront while he opened up the arcade. Hallworth, the protester sitting outside with his religious placards and flask of coffee, nodded his head in the direction of David’s disappearing form.

“Who’s that? He looks familiar.”

“He was here yesterday.” Ripley said shortly, unlocking the security gate and stepping back as it rose all too slowly.

“I don’t mean that.” Hallworth frowned. “From before then. Years back. He used to hang around the seafront as a lad, didn’t he?” Ripley shrugged.

“I wouldn’t know about that.” His voice was as vague as he could manage. Thankfully the grill juddered to a halt at the top just then and Ruth appeared, hurrying along the promenade, calling out.

“Ripley, I’m not late am I? I had a terrible night. I knew I shouldn’t have eaten that curry!”

He reassured her as they went inside, and quickly set up for the day. When all the staff had arrived, and the punters started trickling in, it was easy enough to head off.

David was sitting on a bench near the entrance to the pier, looking romantically windswept in his long coat. Ripley’s stomach flipped. The more he saw David, the more he seemed to fucking fancy him! David grinned as he approached, and he found himself smiling back. He knew full well why David had chosen this bench. They’d often sat here as kids, sharing a can of cider, watching the world go by and feeling so fucking superior to every sad drone that passed. Sometimes they’d got so drunk they’d kissed, right there on the promenade: a fuck you to the easily offended tourist families they both hated, and a taunt to the queerbashers. They were both messed up enough that they weren’t averse to provoking fights this way. Sometimes they came out on top, sometimes they didn’t. But winning was never the point of fighting.

Ripley leant on the back of the bench.

“Shall we get going? Time and tide aren’t giving us a fucking break, I’ll tell you that.”

“Remember when we bumped into Brian here?” David tilted his head, gazing up at Ripley leaning over the bench behind him.

“Bumped into? I don’t think we’d have _seen_ him if he hadn’t been fucking _obsessed_ with you.” Ripley pointed out. They’d been shit-faced that day, laughing hysterically at the glares they got from those elders who considered themselves considerably better than the two teenage louts. By the early evening they’d had their tongues down each other’s throats, so pissed they didn’t even notice the responses any more. But Brian had been particularly loud.

“I don’t fucking believe it!” Even through a fog of alcohol, Ripley recognised the voice, and pushed the protesting David away in order to look up. All three had stared at each other, frowning silently, for a long moment. Typically, David spoke up first.

“Brian! How delightful to see you again! Still got a hard-on for rules and regulations?” Brian glared at him, but it was Ripley he spoke to.

“You had a chance, kid. You could have done something with your life. But instead you’re just letting that sick son-of-a-bitch fuck you over?”

“Oh, he lets me fuck him over and _over_!” David retorted, running his tongue along his upper lip, slowly and obscenely. Brian ignored him.

“I should have told you everything, back when I had a chance. You don’t know half the things he’s done!” Brian’s hatred of David was clear in every word. Apparently he couldn’t even bring himself to _look_ at David, his eyes focused on Ripley as if David wasn’t even there. “He’s still doing them, you mark my words boy. You think you’re special? That’s what he _wants_ you to think!” Ripley shook his head, starting to get angry.

“What gives you the right to act so fucking high and mighty?” He demanded. He pulled free of David, staggering to his feet. “You sent me back to my father, you arsehole! Three fucking days he beat me into the ground, and what did any of you bastards at Whittingham do about it?” Brian stared at him, mouth open, unable to think of a response for a moment. “It was _David_ who saved me, not you. _David_ turned my life around, not the fucking looney bin! I don’t give a shit _what_ he’s done, I fucking _love_ him!”

In his drunken haze it was the first time he’d actually said the words out loud. Brian was speechless, but David was standing too now, sliding his arms around Ripley from behind.

“I love you too, you crazy little bastard.” There was a cruel amusement in David’s voice. He kissed Ripley’s neck, nuzzling against the skin. Brian stood for a few moments, gawping at them, and then he shook his head.

“I give up.” He said quietly, and he turned and walked away.

Another memory that the years had warped, Ripley thought sadly. At the time it had been another example of him and David against the world. They’d gone home and fucked into the small hours. He really _had_ loved David, he knew that. But now he was pretty sure that David had never been capable of loving him in return. He could even see the scene from Brian’s perspective: Ripley was just a pawn to David. Brian wanted to save the lad from David’s clutches, and so David had proved to him that he couldn’t. It was the beginning of the end, really, a few short months before Ripley’s eighteenth birthday...

“Not a happy memory, then?” David’s teasing voice intruded on his thoughts. Ripley sighed, shaking his head.

“Let’s go to Whittingham.”

*

Ripley didn’t tell David that he’d been out to Whittingham recently, but it was probably obvious from the fact he knew exactly how to get in, and where the old central block was. It looked different in the daylight, though – both more and less familiar in turns. They sat down on the grass at the edge of the parking area out front, and looked out across the grounds. This bit of the development was almost complete, and they’d laid new squares of lawn turf over the torn up ground where the construction lorries had been. It was almost tranquil.

“It seems smaller, somehow.” David said at last. Ripley nodded, lighting up and offering David the packet.

“You ever been in the bin since?” He asked. From David’s tone, it sounded as if Whittingham had had as big an impact on him as it had had on Ripley, and he was almost surprised to consider that it might have been David’s one and only time in a psych unit. David shook his head.

“Brian didn’t get all his predictions right, you know.”

“You mean you got better at not getting caught?” Ripley teased. David chuckled.

“Something like that. These days, I think if I did it’d be prison anyway.”

“So Whittingham cured you!” Ripley’s words were sarcastic. David laughed again, louder this time.

“They liked to think so. It was good for the statistics, wasn’t it? Two teenagers, returned to sanity and society: a triumph of the last days of the great psychiatric hospitals!” He shrugged. “Not that I’m complaining, mind. I was quite happy here, in a way.” Ripley nodded.

“Well, the outside world was fucking shit.” He pointed out. David stretched his legs out, lying back on the short, too-green grass and gazing up at the autumn sun.

“I nearly got caught once, about ten years back.” He admitted. “For assault, mind, not any of the other business. I had a long think about it all then. I figured if I went down I could easily enough stay out of Broadmoor, despite what Brian reckoned. But I could just as easily get into it, if I wanted.”

“You fucking psychopath.” Ripley retorted. David laughed and shrugged.

“Maybe. Anyway, the case fell through so I never had to decide which was better.”

“Are you in trouble again?” Ripley asked. “That’s why you came back?”

“Not the law.” David said. “But… Well, I told you I never found another partner like you, right? I got better at hustling alone, but it’s harder when there’s no one to watch your back. And I was never any good at keeping my mouth shut.” He paused for a moment, taking a drag on his cigarette. “So I pissed off the wrong people. _Really_ fucking pissed them off. They wanted me dead; I got out of town.” He pulled a face. “But I had to get something out of it, and that pissed them off even more. So I need to leave the country, at least for a few years until it dies down.”

“Where did all this happen?” Ripley asked.

“Manchester.”

“Manchester! And you only came as far as fucking Blackpool?!” Ripley sat up, shaking his head. David leant on one elbow, gazing up at Ripley for a moment.

“I need you to muddy the waters for me.” He admitted. “I can’t have them working out where I’ve gone. The police investigation will only buy me a few days – once things calm down they’ll come looking.”

“Why me?” Ripley didn’t know how to feel about all this. “I haven’t seen you in twenty fucking years!”

“Exactly.” David laughed a little. “I don’t play well with others, you know that. I thought at least the years might have made you think more kindly of me.” He tilted his head, a slight smile playing across his face. “I was right, wasn’t I?” Ripley shrugged, a little grudgingly.

“You spent three fucking years using me for your own ends while you were fucking your way round Blackpool.” His words didn’t sound quite as angry as he’d meant them to. David merely laughed.

“Like you’re a fucking saint!”

“I never raped anyone, David. I never took a fucking knife to them.” He shook his head. “No matter what, I still don’t understand why you needed to do that when I-“ He broke off. He’d been going to say, “when I would have done anything for you” but it sounded too pathetic even in his head. David pulled a face.

“Like you said, I’m a fucking psychopath.” David was teasing; Ripley knew he didn’t really believe his words. In David’s mind, it was perfectly logical for him to simply take whatever he wanted and play other people any way he needed in order to do so. Ripley frowned. He still thought there was something else behind all this, but he couldn’t quite work it out.

David reached out a hand to run it lazily down Ripley’s chest.

“Come to Vegas with me.” He said at last. “No secrets this time. You know what I’m like, and I know you still want me despite that.” His fingers flicked, one by one, across Ripley’s groin. “It’ll be like old times.”

Ripley shook his head.

“I’m not leaving my family, David.” He said firmly. A smirk played across David’s mouth.

“You might not have a choice.”

“What the fuck do you mean?” Ripley was on his guard now, sitting up with muscles tense, ready to rise at a moment’s notice. David’s hand fell onto the grass, and then he sat up lazily.

“For an experienced con man, you really aren’t that sharp sometimes, are you Ripley?” He teased. He saw Ripley’s body tense again, and he held up a hand. “No, no, I’m not threatening you. I’m just explaining something I thought you’d have worked out by now. The body.” Ripley’s brow furrowed.

“What about it?”

“Sweetheart, you can’t have failed to notice that you’re the prime suspect for murder!” David pointed out. “Maybe you think you’re safe because you know you’re innocent. But you’re implicated, all the same. I’ve given you enough witnesses to my return to point the finger, sure. It might, after all, be the only way you can avoid taking the rap yourself.” He paused for moment. He sounded like he was enjoying this. “But you can’t do that without opening a whole other can of worms. How do you _know_ it was me? What do you know about the other murder? And just _what_ was our relationship?” David grinned, showing his teeth. “You’ll lose your family either way. Come with me before you get arrested and at least they’ll never know for sure what you’ve done!” Ripley shook his head, starting to get to his feet. Despite everything, he’d never seen this coming.

“You bastard!” His words were hissed, he could barely force them out. David laughed.

“Well, I really didn’t know you were going to be so obliging, darling. I thought it might take a bit longer to persuade you to help me, not that you’d be so fucking desperate you’d jump my bones the first time we met!”

Ripley punched him, then, full in the face. David was expecting this, of course, and although he went down he was soon struggling to his feet, so that they both stood facing each other: Ripley breathing hard and angrily, David smirking a little despite the blood running down his face.

“Brian was fucking right about you!” Ripley snarled. David laughed.

“Admit it, baby, you always kind of knew he was.” He retorted. “You wanted me just the same.”

The worst of it was, Ripley thought as he drew back his fist again, that David was right. This thought only made him angrier, and he knocked David down again. This time he dove on top of him, so that they were struggling on the turf, grappling with each other. David was fighting back now, and they tumbled a little down the hill, hands pulling at each other. Ripley tried to rise to get a better punch in, but David dragged him down, managing to get his hands around Ripley’s neck until Ripley kneed him in the stomach. David doubled up, releasing his grip, and that gave Ripley enough strength to struggle to his knees, driving his fist into David’s face again and again.

Despite the agony he must have been in, David somehow managed to raise a hand, but Ripley only noticed when he felt the pressure on his cock through his trousers. He hadn’t even realised until then that he had a hard-on. He paused, and David’s hand stroked up and down his groin, just once. And then he spat blood to say.

“And you _still_ fucking want me, baby!” He laughed, gurgling a little. Ripley shook his head. Afterwards he blamed the adrenaline, but at the time he barely even thought about it. He swatted David’s hand away, and grabbed at his hips to haul him roughly over onto his front. David didn’t respond as Ripley yanked down his trousers, releasing his own cock with one hand as he did so. He spat on his hand, a bit of cursory lubrication, before he angled his erection between David’s buttocks, penetrating him rather roughly.

The entire thing was over in a matter of minutes. Ripley’s hands gripped David’s shoulders hard, pinning him down as his cock stabbed into him, fucking him with a lack of finesse that nonetheless built quickly into orgasm. He could taste David’s blood in his mouth, dimly hear David gurgling in pain beneath him, but neither of these two things did anything to stop the build of pleasure inside him that rapidly overtook him. He grunted as he ejaculated into David, still breathing hard as he withdrew almost immediately.

Ripley sat back on his heels, looking down at David’s bruised and motionless body. He doubted David had got much out of this, although he reasoned that one could hardly call it rape. Maybe it had been David’s plan all along or maybe he had just pulled Ripley into it on a whim. Either way, it was all part of David’s fucked up Machiavellian mind game! He shook his head, tucking his cock away and fastening his trousers. David rolled slowly over and, his anger spent, Ripley was shocked for a moment to see the mess he’d made of his former friend.

“Admiring your handiwork?” David said with some amusement. “Like father like son, eh?” Ripley didn’t rise to the bait.

“You want me to take you to hospital?” He asked. David shook his head, slowly.

“Nah, too dangerous. I’ll be all right.” His voice was choked. But then he smiled, barely visible beneath the blood. “I’ll take that as a yes, though.” He added. Ripley didn’t have to ask what he meant.


	4. Betrayal

They went to a hotel in the end: a down market place at the wrong end of the seafront where Ripley thought there’d be no questions. The receptionist flinched, nonetheless, when she saw the state of David.

“What happened?” She asked, eyes wide.

“Fight.” Ripley said shortly.

“Shall I call the police?”

“No need.” Ripley said, and then, when her hand continued to hover over the telephone, he added more firmly. “No! We just need a place to clean up. I’ll pay cash up front.” She nodded and took the money, glancing at David every so often all the same. He was leaning heavily on the counter, looking pale under the blood. When Ripley got him upstairs, he collapsed onto the bed. Ripley had to undress him, rolling up his own sleeves and touching David quite gingerly despite the fact he’d caused the injuries himself. There were bruises spreading across David’s ribs and stomach, and his face was a bloody mess. Ripley swallowed, shaking his head. Like David had said, it reminded him of his father. Although Andrew Price had usually left Ripley’s face untouched, so that the bruises were easier to hide.

“You’re not enjoying this, are you?” David sounded almost intrigued. Ripley well remembered David’s reaction to his own injuries way back when: an eager “can I see?” and a sharp hissing intake of breath when Ripley slowly peeled off his t-shirt. There had been a fire in David’s eyes, a desperate lust that hadn’t bothered Ripley at the time because he had wanted David just as badly. He didn’t care exactly why David wanted him, wasn’t even especially bothered that his injuries turned David on...

“I don’t share your interests, David.” Ripley helped him to his feet, leading him to the bathroom and turning the taps on the bath on full.

“So, the fight turns you on but not the aftermath?” David said, sounding intrigued. Ripley gave a noncommittal grunt in reply. The water was warm, and he helped David into it, starting to sponge him down gently. He’d meant what he said; he didn’t get off on blood and bruising the way David did. But it was a strange experience, nonetheless. Beating someone to a pulp and then cleaning them up was bound to be, he supposed. But he hadn’t expected it to be so oddly intimate, so that the last vestiges of his anger seemed to be rinsed away with the blood.

And yet nothing had changed! David had still set him up, after all. Ripley just didn’t seem to care anymore. David noticed the shift in his mood, of course.

“I know you won’t believe it, but I missed you.” He said softly. Ripley snorted. “It’s true!” David insisted. “I’ve never met anyone who meant a fucking thing to me, except you.”

“You used me.” Ripley said shortly, dabbing the sponge across David’s face.

“I know.” David’s voice was sincere. “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t care about you.”

Ripley wanted to believe David, really he did. Maybe, after all, David was right. Ripley strongly suspected that David didn’t know any way to relate to people _other_ than by using them. But he’d trusted David, once upon a time, and look where that had got him. He sighed.

“I suggest you stay here for a couple of days at the most. That should give you time enough to plan the trip to Vegas. You want me to muddy the waters, I’ll do it. But I’m not coming after you, David. Not this time.”

David nodded, smiling almost fondly through the ruin of his face.

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

*

Ripley had a shower and cleaned himself up as best he could, making a note of the extension number of the phone in case he needed to check in with David. He’d have to talk to him before he left anyway, work out the best way to keep those Manchester lads off David’s trail. He drove back to the arcade, so lost in thought that for a moment he forgot about the murder.

Carlisle was waiting for him outside.

“I need to take you in for questioning, Mr Holden. Would you like to come with me, or meet me at the station?”

“I’d like to go home for me dinner!” Ripley retorted, but he’d given Natalie a call to tell her he’d be late and gone to the station all the same. At least David had prepared him. He was surprised at himself for _not_ having considered all the things David had pointed out to him, but then he guessed David’s return had rather overshadowed everything else.

They didn’t seem to know all that much, thankfully. No mention of David, as yet, although as luck would have it someone remembered Ripley himself trying to start a fight with Mike Hooley at Romeo’s. Ripley had been drunk enough on the opening night that he didn’t much remember, but that was doubtless why David had chosen that particular lad to murder. It didn’t help that Ripley had come in for questioning with bruised knuckles and torn and dirty clothing.

“Are you often involved in fistfights, Mr Holden?” DC Blythe, Carlisle’s irritatingly juvenile partner asked him.

“Not as a rule, no. I’m an upstanding member of the community, me!”

“But you have been in a fight today?” Carlisle followed up. Ripley could hardly deny it.

“More of an altercation, really.”

“And did you have an altercation with Mike Hooley?”

Ripley continued to deny everything, and in the end Carlisle had to let him go. When he got home it was late, but Natalie had kept his dinner warm. He gave her a grateful kiss, but of course she couldn’t help but notice the state of him, backing away.

“Have you been in a fight?” She sounded horrified.

“Jesus, dad!” Shyanne chimed in. “What happened? What did you do?!”

“A misunderstanding, that’s all.” Ripley tried to brush the whole thing aside. “I’ve had a shitty day, and that fucking detective harassing me all through dinner instead of doing his job and finding the bastard that killed that lad’s the last fucking straw!” He went and poured himself a whiskey while he spoke.

“Are you in trouble, dad?” Shyanne tried to keep the interrogation going.

“Leave it, Shyanne.” Natalie intervened, fetching Ripley’s dinner and carrying it to the table. “Can’t you see your dad’s tired? Let him have some peace for once.” She shooed Shyanne out of the kitchen, and then came and sat down with Ripley while he ate in silence. After a bit, she reached out for the bottle and poured herself a whiskey as well.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” She asked, when he finished eating.

“What do you mean?” Ripley frowned. “ _I’d_ like to know what’s fucking going on! Isn’t that what the police are supposed to be figuring out?” Natalie chewed her lip. Then she reached out across the table and laid her hand on Ripley’s.

“Let me tell you what I think.” She said. “I think this David’s trouble. That’s why you didn’t want to invite him to dinner.”

“Where the hell did you get that idea from?” His words didn’t put her off.

“Ripley, I’m not stupid. And I have a good memory. Back when we first met, there was someone you warned me about. You never mentioned him by name, but you were scared of him. You thought he’d come after you, and by extension me. Do you remember?” There was a short pause. Ripley wondered what to say, what to admit to. And then, slowly, he nodded.

“It was David, wasn’t it?” She continued. Eventually, Ripley nodded again. Natalie squeezed his hand, and then she let it go and sat back.

“You don’t have to tell me what he did, Ripley. You don’t have to tell me what he wants now. But if there’s anything I can do to help, to keep the kids safe – to keep _you_ safe – you know I’d do it, right?”

Dumbly, Ripley nodded again. He reached for the bottle, and topped up both their glasses without asking. Then he cleared his throat.

“He’s not coming back.” He said. “You don’t have to worry, Natalie.” He knew how she’d take his words, after the state he’d come home in, but he didn’t care.

*

Although Ripley felt more prepared after David’s confession, events conspired to take an unexpected turn that even David couldn’t have anticipated. In the midst of everything, Shyanne decided to introduce her parents to her boyfriend, Steve. Steve turned out to be Ripley’s age. Although the age difference certainly bothered Ripley, what bothered him more was the realisation that he and Steve had been at school together. Steve knew about the suicide attempt, because he’d been one of the five kids Ripley picked at random to send notes about: _Dear Mr and Mrs So-and-so, I had to kill myself because your son made my life hell._ He couldn’t bear the thought of checking out without creating a bit more chaos. The notes had come up a lot during his time at Whittingham. Presumably they were seen as yet another thing that marked Ripley out as unhinged.

If Steve let anything slip, the entire investigation would take another track. As yet, Ripley was pretty sure the police hadn’t realised Ripley Holden was not the name he’d been born with, and so probably hadn’t uncovered his psychiatric history. When they did, that would be the first in a chain of links leading to David. So Ripley had warned Steve off, knowing how easily he could scare him. And it had seemed to work, for a day or two. But he hadn’t counted on Shyanne’s persistence. She’d worn Steve down, and he’d confessed everything.

“He said you tried to kill yourself, dad!” Shyanne stood in the hallway, hands on her hips, eyes blazing.

“It were a long time ago! I was just a messed up kid.” Ripley protested. He hadn’t wanted his family to know, but they were all there, staring: Danny stunned, Shyanne furious at the way he’d treated Steve, Natalie concerned. He sighed, trying to work out his confession. “Look, me dad was a monster. I couldn’t work out how to get away from him. My mother was so spaced out I don’t think she even noticed I existed.” He shook his head. “It were a stupid thing to do, I know that now. But I was desperate.”

Natalie squeezed his arm.

“You don’t have to explain yourself.” She reassured him: that Samaritans training coming through.

“He bloody well does!” Shyanne was still angry. “You warned Steve off, dad. You haven’t changed, have you? Still playing with people’s lives!”

“It’s for your own good, Shyanne. He’s too old for you!” Ripley tried changing tack, but this just sent Shyanne’s fury up another notch.

“I don’t even know who you are anymore!” She flung the words at him as she turned to storm out of the house. Ripley took a step to go after her, but Natalie laid a hand on his arm.

“Give her some time to calm down.”

But time was something Ripley didn’t have, because he knew it wouldn’t be long before the police came calling again. The very next morning, in fact, just three days after Ripley had beaten David up, DI Carlisle turned up at the arcade.

“Can I have a word, Mr Holden?”

“Still out to ruin my business, detective?” Ripley didn’t feel particularly gracious towards the policeman.

“Well, I could do this formally if you’d prefer. But I actually thought it would be _better_ for your business if we talked here, rather than letting your customers see me drag you down to the station.”

Ripley had no choice, really, other than to take Carlisle up to the office. He threw himself into the leather chair behind his desk, in front of full-length windows, looking out over the arcade floor.

“Make it snappy, I’m a busy man.”

Carlisle folded himself into a seat opposite Ripley.

“We’ve been looking into your past associates, Mr Holden. Something’s come up that rather surprised me, and I’d like to get your side of the story before we take things any further.” The detective regarded him thoughtfully for a moment and Ripley shrugged. Carlisle went on.

“Nearly thirty years ago, the local papers reported the attempted suicide of a young Blackpool lad named John Wesley Price. The reporter seemed to think Price’s drunken misdemeanour was the act of a young hooligan, but the authorities were more charitable and ruled him mentally ill. He spent ten months in Whittingham Psychiatric Hospital, and then he more or less disappeared.” Ripley didn’t say anything, although Carlisle seemed to be waiting for a reaction. When he didn’t get one, he eventually continued. “There appears to be little in the official record on John Wesley Price after that until a few years later. A deed was issued to change the name of John Wesley Price of Blackpool, Lancashire, to Ripley Holden.” Carlisle sat back and waited.

“If you know all that, what do you need _me_ to tell you?” Ripley asked.

“I’d quite like to know what happened in the period for which no records exist.” Carlisle spoke smoothly. “I should add that we’re approaching the relevant authorities for access to your medical files. If it’s deemed relevant to _either_ murder, we _will_ get them. So I thought I should give you an opportunity to explain the situation first.”

“Either murder?” Ripley knew exactly what Carlisle was talking about, but he pretended not to understand.

“The one in 1979. I mentioned it before, remember?” Carlisle’s face was impassive. “Two years after you left Whittingham, and a few months before you changed your name.” Ripley snorted.

“You’re insinuating that’s why I changed my name? Well, let me put you straight.” He was angry, despite himself. This was why he hated the fucking authorities. They’d done nothing to help him when he needed it, and now dared to suggest that what he’d managed to do for himself was _suspicious_?

“I changed my name because it’s what my religious nutter of a father christened me. You ask anyone at Whittingham, and they’ll tell you I was calling myself Ripley even then. So there’s no record for several years? Well, that’s what happens to homeless teenagers, did you know that? They disappear! I tried to kill myself to escape my father’s belt. Whittingham gave me respite, sure, but then they sent me back to him. So all I could do was walk out. When I turned sixteen, they couldn’t make me go back. But until I was eighteen I couldn’t get a bank account, I couldn’t get a flat, I couldn’t get a passport and I couldn’t change my fucking name!” Ripley’s words were furious by the end. He stared at the complacent face of the smug Scottish detective, breathing hard, fists clenched. Carlisle nodded.

“It must have been a difficult time.” His concern didn’t sound genuine to Ripley. “So where did you go? Who did you stay with?”

“I found a place in a squat.” Ripley knew he should probably mention David: it was hardly going to stay a secret for long. “I was with a friend, a kid I knew from Whittingham. It was hard, but we looked out for each other.”

“Can you tell me the name of the friend?”

“David.” Ripley admitted. “David Williams.”

Carlisle noted everything down, but there wasn’t much more he could glean from Ripley as yet. Ripley found himself wondering what they’d get from Whittingham. Since the hospital had closed down, he wasn’t quite sure where his records would have ended up. Could the police get access to them, with just a suspicion to go on? He didn’t even know what they said, but it was highly likely the notes expressed concern about his relationship with David, given that those concerns had been voiced by the staff often enough. If nothing else, Carlisle would find out just how intense his connection to David had been. He found he rather enjoyed imagining the look of shock passing over the detective’s smug superior face when he did!

*

Ripley was still angry when he left the arcade. He’d got through those years, sure: even enjoyed a lot of it, with David at his side. But he still hated the authorities for what they’d failed to do for him. It had taken him and David a while to work out how to survive, after Whittingham. David was sixteen by that point, Ripley not far off. But they’d been rather less street-wise than they’d thought they were. Ripley’s parents might have been useless on many fronts, but he’d been fed and clothed at least. David had grown up in the care system, which was a similar experience. And life in Whittingham hadn’t taught them anything other than how to get each other off – and hide most of what they were doing from the nurses.

After the first few days of blissfully enjoying each other’s bodies, the pair had a sharp wake-up. They had no money, and no real idea of how to get any. They lived on crisps and chocolate pinched from the local newsagents, with the occasional cold Co-op pasty. The weather was getting colder, and neither of them even had a jumper, still less a winter coat. David had managed, just about, over the last few months. But he seemed to have been expecting Ripley’s arrival to be a magic solution to the problems of being young and homeless. It wasn’t.

After a couple of weeks, they were cold, hungry and miserable. They’d tried a bit of begging, but didn’t seem to earn much. Ripley, trusting to luck, suggested they put everything they’d got so far into the slot machines. It was in the arcade that David came up with another solution. They’d both heard about the creepy old perverts who lurked in some of the less popular amusements, hoping to get lucky with some needy young lad. Why not get paid for it? David suggested. Ripley baulked at the idea, but it did seem like a relatively easy way to get some cash. And if they were ever going to get out of Blackpool, that’s what they needed.

“Close your eyes and think of Vegas!” David joked, squeezing Ripley’s arm. Ripley swallowed, feeling sick. He couldn’t answer, just walked away from his boyfriend, finding a machine in the corner of the arcade.

They took opposite sides of the place. Ripley couldn’t see David among the fruit machines, which made him still more nervous. He glanced around him, looking for a likely punter. He only had a few coins, so he couldn’t really hang about for that long. He rubbed a coin between his fingers, hoping against hope that he could get out of this. He pushed it into the slot, but didn’t quite dare to start the reels spinning.

“All right, lad?” The sound of a voice behind him made him jump. He must have been standing there motionless for a while, for someone to have got that close. Ripley spun round. The man was about forty, slightly overweight and a little flushed and sweaty, but not too unpleasant looking. He didn’t look like a sex pest, but then Ripley figured not everyone could fit the trench-coated stereotype.

“Aye, not bad.” He managed to keep his voice from shaking. “You looking for someone?” He wasn’t quite sure what to say, but that seemed to work.

“I could be.” The man continued, glancing around him briefly. It couldn’t have escaped his notice that Ripley was considerably under age. “How much?”

“Twenty quid?” He and David hadn’t really considered how much the going rate might be. The man frowned, looking Ripley up and down, and Ripley thought for a moment he’d asked for too much. But then the chap nodded.

“All right.”

No sense leaving without playing, Ripley thought. He hit the button, watching the reels spin. He was so busy thinking about having to go with this bloke that he didn’t notice when the first two lined up. And then the lights on the front of the machine started flashing, and music blared out. Ripley jumped, stunned. He’d hit the jackpot!

As coins started clattering out of the machine, the pervert beat a hasty retreat, realising immediately that the jackpot would attract attention. Ripley stood stunned for a moment longer, hypnotised by the falling coins. Then he stepped back, realising something.

“David!” He yelled across the arcade floor. “David!!” He caught sight of David walking towards the doorway, striding confidently despite the fact he too must have been nervous, an anorak-clad man shuffling a good few feet behind him. He took another step to the side, not wanting to move away from the machine.

“DAVID!!” He shouted at the top of his voice, and thankfully David heard him, turning in surprise. When he realised what was happening he started to run, practically throwing himself into Ripley’s arms. But then everyone expected a celebration when the machines paid out, so two teenagers hugging each other on the arcade floor didn’t raise too many eyebrows.

Ripley won £70 that day. That was a lot of money in 1977: a packet of fags was only about 50p, Ripley remembered. That day was when his luck had changed, although it wasn’t the last of their problems by a long shot. They’d celebrated with fish and chips and cider on the sea front, but that still left plenty more cash. And Ripley was determined they’d never be in the same position again.

That was when he’d first got a taste for business, he reckoned: although their business had been rather less legal in those days! But the tricks they’d learnt had certainly set Ripley in good stead when he’d got started in the arcade business. There was nothing he didn’t know about the ways people cheat the machines. And little he didn’t know about cheating folk in other ways. David was right, they had been a good team. It turned out to be easy when you didn’t look desperate. They both had the gift of the gab, the ability to charm people into opening their wallets and losing their guard.

Now, though, Ripley needed to know more about what had happened in Manchester and how to deflect attention away from David. And, with the police likely to be on David’s trail soon, he needed to do it now, before it was too late.

Even though it was unlikely Carlisle was following him, he took an unusual route to the hotel just in case, parking at some distance, ducking through back streets he knew well, but that could easily confuse someone rather less local. The same receptionist was on duty, and he nodded at her.

“Room 203, okay?”

“Yeah, he’s still there.” She managed a smile, still not sure if the two of them were friends or rivals. “He’s looking better.”

David was, indeed, looking better. He opened the door wearing just a t-shirt and boxers. He was still bruised to fuck, but the swelling had gone down, which made him look more like his usual handsome and sardonic self.

“Don’t tell me. A delivery of grapes and dirty magazines for the invalid?” He asked, stepping back to let Ripley in. Ripley laughed.

“I’ve got a bottle of Scotch. Will that do?”

“Ah.” David said thoughtfully. “Then this is goodbye.” Ripley nodded, taking his jacket off and throwing it down on the back of the single chair by the window.

“The coppers have got wind of Whittingham. Only a matter of time before they’re searching for you. Coming here today was a risk. But if I’m going to help you, I need to know more.”

“Mmm…” David clearly didn’t think that was the real reason Ripley had come in person. “You could have just phoned.” Ripley raised an eyebrow.

“I could have done, yeah.” They both knew what he meant. They also knew it indicated that he’d forgiven David, at least to some extent. Or perhaps just accepted him for what he was.

“So what do they know?” David asked, fetching two plastic tooth glasses from the bathroom and unwrapping the cellophane. He took the bottle Ripley passed to him, filling each glass halfway as Ripley threw himself down onto the end of the bed. He took the glass David proffered him, and David sat opposite, leaning back slightly in the chair.

“Not much.” Ripley assured him. “They know I was there and why. And they know when I changed my name. Somehow Carlisle’s got that all tied up with the murder.” He rolled his eyes, then looked at David for a moment. “The other one, I mean. And they know your real name.” David shrugged, and Ripley added, “I take it that’s not what your passport calls you?” David laughed.

“I learnt that trick more than twenty years ago. It doesn’t call me Britten either, of course.”

Ripley nodded, not surprised.

“When do you go?”

“Tomorrow, probably. Day after at the latest. I need to pick a roundabout route, so it’ll be Europe first I reckon. We’ll see from there.”

Ripley knocked back a good measure of whiskey, contemplating this for a moment. Then he said, in quite serious tones.

“You’re not going to Vegas, are you?” David grinned slowly.

“You’re getting quicker off the mark, honey!” He took a slow sip of his drink. “Vegas is just a convincing destination. At least it is for you to sell to all and sundry.” Ripley nodded.

“Thought as much.” He held his already nearly empty glass out to David, who topped it up without another word. They were both silent for a little while. Then Ripley said. “So, what _can_ you tell me?”

David stretched his legs out, so that they almost touched Ripley’s, contemplating this.

“They know me as Britten in Manchester.” He began. “That’s why I tossed that name to that policeman friend of yours. When I say ‘they’, it’s a family business – name of Donovan. If you hear that name, then keep looking over your shoulder. My guess is they won’t come near you, though. Got no reason to, and Carlisle’s interest will help keep you safe. They’re pretty high profile, for a drugs ring – not scallies, certainly. They have international reach, and rather good contacts with the cops locally. They’ve no business interest in Blackpool, though, which is another reason why it seemed a good starting point. They’ll have no connection to Albright, or even that Scottish fellow that’s come down. So they’ll be biding their time, right now.”

Ripley nodded, taking all this in.

“Are you going to tell me what you took? Money? Drugs?” He paused a second and when David didn’t answer, he added. “Both?” David shook his head.

“I’m not going to tell you. If for any reason they get a hint you might know anything about that, then I wouldn’t count on your family’s safety.” He sounded so serious that Ripley snorted.

“As if you give a monkey’s about my family’s safety!” His words were rather bitter. David started, actually looking surprised for a moment, and then his face crinkled into a smile.

“Maybe I have hidden depths.” He wiggled his eyebrows, and Ripley laughed despite himself.

“Aye, I’ve explored most of them, you dirty bastard.”

David picked up the whiskey bottle, shifting his chair a bit closer to the bed. His leg brushed against Ripley’s as he re-filled their glasses. Ripley found himself shivering a little. There was something about this moment: knowing that this was it, the last time. He swallowed.

“So every little seed you want me to sow goes via Carlisle, is that it?” He tried to pull them back on track. David nodded.

“They’ll never realise it's a con that way. The best part is I can tell that detective gets right up your nose. So you’ll make him work for the information.” He laughed. “That’ll keep them on their toes!” Ripley nodded.

“And that’s it? That’s your entire work of evil fucking genius?” He teased. David pulled a face.

“Best to keep things simple. That’s where most evil geniuses go wrong, after all.” His face was creased with amusement.

“True enough.” Ripley agreed. Then he tilted his head, looking at David a moment. “And what do _I_ get out of it?”

David leaned forward, his voice throaty.

“What do you _want_ to get out of it, baby?”

“Let’s see…” Ripley pretended to consider. “How about 100 grand, for starters?” He fixed David with a look, and David rolled his eyes.

“You know full well the con doesn’t work if there’s any _evidence_ you get anything.” He pointed out. He reached forward, placing his hand on Ripley's leg, fingers stroking gently up the inside of Ripley’s thigh. “What happens in this room, however…” Ripley shrugged carelessly.

“Well, in that case, you can top the glass up and suck my cock.” He held the cup out towards David. “For starters, mind.”

David chuckled, and reached for the bottle.

*

In some ways, Ripley could hardly believe that David was the same man as the smooth yet viciously unhinged kid of a quarter-century ago. When he was here, with David, it was hard even to remember Mike Hooley’s body, lying cold and bloody on the arcade floor. The fight of a few days back seemed aeons ago as he relaxed back onto the bed, eyelids fluttering. Although he’d asked for more whiskey the cup was forgotten, just about remaining upright as it rested in the hand he had flung out beside him.

When he felt David’s breath, warm on the soft skin of his penis, Ripley sighed a little. His cock swelled rapidly, David’s tongue brushing along it. David’s lips met his balls, sucking slightly against the skin and Ripley groaned. Most of what they’d learned, back in the day, they’d learnt from each other. David had certainly had practice since, though. The cup crinkled in Ripley’s hand as he clenched his fingers, the plastic making a sharp cracking sound as David’s mouth slid over his cock, taking it right down so that his nose was almost buried in Ripley’s pubic hair.

Every moment with David seemed to bring back a host of memories: the unwanted as well as the pleasurable. Right now, however, all Ripley could think about was the countless times they’d been in this situation before. Fleeting images of their young bodies writhing, entwined together on a dirty mattress, of going down on David in a less than pleasant public toilet, and barely even noticing that his knees were damp on the grimy floor... Ripley groaned again, the cup cracking in his hand, sticky, sweet whiskey covering his fingers.

He looked down at David, watching through half-lidded eyes as his cock emerged from David’s mouth only to disappear again, the warm cavern of David’s throat enveloping him. His body felt too warm, every nerve on edge, every hair standing on end. He reached down, running his fingers through David’s hair. David tilted his head, glancing up at Ripley from a rather awkward angle as he reached the tip of Ripley’s penis, letting it slip from between his lips. And then he smiled. That same smile Ripley remembered from the day he first met David; from when he had run into him again in the pub a few nights back; from every occasion when they’d rowed and David had got round Ripley somehow. He groaned. It was all too much. As David swallowed Ripley’s cock one last time a wave of pleasure crashed over his body, and he came, the last remnants of the broken plastic cup slipping from his fingers.

*

The rest of the evening passed in a blur. There was more whiskey. There were hands and tongues running over naked bodies, all slightly whiskey soaked. The last time Ripley remembered it quite that intense was the night after they came back from London, when they’d both been so grateful to be back in familiar territory that they’d spent a good twelve hours lost in each other’s bodies, barely pausing to eat or sleep.

London… As Ripley lay in a half-conscious daze in David’s arms, he couldn’t help but re-live it. Meeting Brian had spurred them into leaving Blackpool. Seeing him again reminded them both of the plans they’d once had, the scheme that had somehow got lost in nearly two years of con tricks and petty theft, of sex and fraud and more sex. They both wondered why they’d forgotten their determination to escape.

So London had seemed like the obvious first step in resurrecting their dreams. They both thought they could make money more quickly in the big city. And then the next stop was Vegas! They even had passports, issued in the names of long dead children and obtained via a new network of contacts that gave them both a burst of pride. They weren’t penniless and naïve now – far from it! They travelled to London on train tickets purchased in cash, with a small amount of luggage and a cheap hotel at the other end.

They lasted a little more than a month. What they hadn’t anticipated was that London already seemed to be divided up into an intricate network of territories. There was much more and well-established competition than in Blackpool, where they knew all too well where to work and who to sell on to. In London, they didn’t know a soul. They got driven on several times and, despite bloodied knuckles and battered faces, they couldn’t seem to find a niche. David wasn’t the only person who was handy with a knife, and on one occasion they even got threatened at gunpoint into handing over nearly everything they had. In just over a week they were sleeping on the street, sheltering from the rain in doorways and under bridges.

This was homelessness of a far more dismal quality than their Blackpool squat. Huddled in the same sleeping bag, each day left them more depressed, more frustrated. Sex was a near impossibility. David became a ball of pent-up fury, nearly getting himself killed in one fight before Ripley dragged him away, taunting passers-by in a constant stream of bitter provocation. Ripley was too dispirited to do much more than beg a few quid to spend on cider. Vegas seemed further away than it had done even in Blackpool. When Ripley heard the rumble of a train passing nearby, the noise seemed to beckon him, once again hinting at a way out.

The worst of it was that David refused to give up. Ripley alternately pleaded with and railed at David to come back to Blackpool but David flatly refused, saying that if Ripley was going to chicken out and return then it would be alone. And Ripley couldn’t imagine being alone, not after all that time.

The end came unexpectedly, in the guise of the sort of fight they’d tried to provoke often enough in Blackpool. It had been a grey, drizzly day, and they were curled up together in a doorway a few streets off the South Bank. They’d been begging out there earlier but had given up to try and get some rest, huddled exhausted in each other’s arms for warmth.

“Look, Tom! A pair of queer tramps!” A jeering voice called out. A stocky man somewhere in his late twenties with a shaven head was standing a few feet away. His friend laughed.

“It’s a sad fucking sight, innit, Kev?”

“Sad? It’s fucking disgusting!” The man approached them, still talking about them rather than at them. Ripley was too tired to respond: he simply rested his head against David’s shoulder with a sigh. It seemed like David, too, wasn’t going to do anything, although his body had tensed against Ripley’s. He merely glared silently at the newcomers, which set them off again.

“You don’t like being talked about, poof?” The first man – Kev – took another step closer. “Well, what you gonna do about it?”

And then he spat on them.

David was on his feet in a split second, surging towards the man so quickly that he knocked him down before the skinhead could do anything to protect himself. Of course, Tom weighed in then, dragging David off his mate. Ripley staggered unwillingly to his feet, going after Tom and getting a good punch in that made him let go of David.

It felt good to do something after so long moping. The adrenaline coursed through Ripley’s body and he found, despite his initial reluctance, that he was actually _enjoying_ the fight. He got another punch in, and he and Tom were grappling on the floor when they heard a scream, gurgling and desperate. He wrenched himself away from Tom, both shocked out of their fight by the sound. When the pair staggered around, there was blood running over the pavement. David had a knife in his hand, and Kev’s jeans were soaked in blood, coming from a deep wound in his thigh.

“Jesus, fuck!” The skinhead gasped, staring helplessly at David for a moment.

“Who’s fucking disgusting now?” David sneered, and then he slashed the knife across the man’s face. Blood sprayed, and the skinhead fell to his knees, clutching both hands to his ravaged face. _Christ,_ David! Ripley thought.

“Tom!” The skinhead was wailing, unable to fight back because he couldn’t even see with the blood in his eyes. “Kill the little bastard, Tom!” David raised the knife again, but Ripley was at his side, grabbing his arm. David turned to look at him, and Ripley shook his head.

“Run.” He said.

This one word seemed to break the spell. David’s eyes widened slightly, and they both pelted out of there, leaving Kev’s mate yelling for the police, ambulance, whatever. Ripley had the presence of mind to grab his old hospital bag, which was stuffed with their fake passports and one or two potential forms of identification – those old love letters, for one. But they left the sleeping bag and most of their other meagre belongings, simply trying to put as much distance between themselves and the scene of the crime as they could. Ripley snatched a coat off the back of a chair as they passed a café, its owner too deep in conversation to even notice the teenagers hurtling past. He shoved it at David, who hauled it on as they ran, covering his blood splattered jumper.

They ran until they couldn’t run anymore, and then they walked the rest of the way to Euston. There were showers at the station, and David managed to wash most of the blood off. They had enough money to get a cheap single to Stafford, and then they dodged the guard the rest of the way to Preston. When they finally got to Blackpool the lights along the seafront, blurred as they were by the persistent drizzle, seemed like a welcome home.

Ripley had never left Lancashire since, other than on holiday. He took the whole escapade as a sign that Blackpool was where he belonged, that the town would bring him luck and keep him going. Nonetheless, he’d worked hard to get a place on the seafront where he belonged, a largely legitimate business and a veneer of respectability. Would he be able to stay there, when all this blew over? He sighed softly, and felt David stir beside him, though he didn’t wake.

Ripley turned his head, gazing at David’s sleeping face for a long moment. He’d just have to see how things panned out.

*

The next morning, Ripley woke slowly, his head fuzzy from the whiskey. For the first time it wasn’t a surprise to find David’s solid body lying alongside him. He rolled over, sliding an arm around David’s semi-conscious form and kissed his naked shoulder fondly.

“I’m going to have to get going before too long.” He murmured. David stirred, turning towards Ripley and running a hand down Ripley’s side.

“I’ll have to make a move as well.” He agreed, pulling Ripley closer despite his words. Ripley’s eyes travelled over David’s face, taking in every detail: square jaw, broad cheeks (still rather bruised), dark brown eyes that were piercing in their intensity, even when hooded with tiredness as they were this morning. Was this the last time he’d ever see David? It didn’t seem sad, somehow – but then maybe that was the hangover. He pressed his lips softly against David’s for a moment, eyes closed.

“I suppose this is goodbye.” He murmured, drawing back a little. David grinned, an expression so familiar it was burnt into Ripley’s memory.

“Honey, you’re not leaving without screaming my name one more time.” He pressed forward again, tongue teasing Ripley’s lips apart. Ripley shivered, pulling away slightly.

“Maybe I’ve lost me voice.” He teased. David laughed.

“Maybe you will have, by tomorrow.” His eyes were dancing, just inches away from Ripley’s, the solid muscle of his biceps holding Ripley close. Ripley shrugged, and then he leaned in and kissed David back. Their tongues glanced against one another, twining together in a kiss that seemed somehow languid and urgent all at once. David’s teeth glanced Ripley’s lip and then tugged it again, more sharply. Ripley closed his eyes. He felt David’s hands pressing against him, pinning him down. He knew the movement was relatively innocent, nonthreatening, and yet he pushed back all the same, shoving David over onto his back. Their mouths lost each other as they moved and then found each other again, Ripley deepening the kiss with grim determination.

David chuckled, a little breathlessly, managing to pull his face away from Ripley’s.

“So, is that your goodbye? Are you gonna fuck me, baby?” His tone was mocking, and this irritated Ripley.

“You gonna stop me?” He challenged. David laughed again.

“Oh no.” He said, almost casually. “I’ll let you do whatever you like to me.” His voice was soft and even – almost hypnotising. Ripley found himself staring down at David, eyebrows slightly raised, a little quizzical. David grinned slowly. “I’ll let you do what you like and then I’ll give you what you _really_ want, sweetheart.” He paused, staring at Ripley for long moments. “If this is the last time, what do you want to remember me by, darling? The ache in your heart, or the ache in your guts?”

David’s eyes were dancing. He knew exactly which way this would end. Ripley paused, his arms out in front of him, muscles tense as he pinned David down. Then he shrugged his shoulders slightly.

“I wouldn’t want it if you didn’t have to fight me for it.” He admitted. David chuckled again, not moving for a moment. And then he shoved upwards and right, forcing Ripley sideways onto the bed in a movement that allowed him to roll awkwardly sideways. Ripley fought back just enough to keep his pride. David was right, though. He didn’t want to win. He’d never wanted to win, not where David was concerned.

Despite the mock struggle, David was gentle as he slid his hands under Ripley’s knees to drag his legs upwards: his lover spread out awkwardly beneath him. Ripley gave a half smile, letting David do what he liked. He was glad really, despite everything, that this last time together was going to mean something. And it really _did_ mean something. He had loved David: loved him more than anyone else in the world his entire life. No matter how David used him, that would never stop being the case.

Ripley felt David’s fingers tease at an arsehole already sticky from the previous night’s lubrication. He gasped, head tilting backwards. He could see David above him, his expression concentrated, almost stern. That was when he realised that this was important to David too. And, with that, a sense of relief flooded through him: relief and adoration. David might be a vicious bastard, but he cared what impression he left Ripley with – cared probably more than he had ever cared about anyone else.

A slight hiss escaped from between Ripley’s teeth as he felt David’s cock nudge between his buttocks, pushing slowly up between them. He wrapped his hands around David’s shoulders, holding him close, running them down David’s back to draw him deeper. Wanting David didn’t make him a victim, like Brian had always thought. This was what they _both_ needed. He groaned, soft and low.

“I fucking love you.” He murmured into David’s shoulder. David laughed and so he said it again, more fervently. “I fucking _love_ you!”

“Yeah. I know you fucking do.” David raised himself up on his arms, his cock sliding easily in and out of Ripley’s well-greased arse. Their eyes met, and David’s were still twinkling. “I’ve known it all this time.”

“Fuck you, I was trying to be deep!” Ripley mock-reprimanded him.

“I’m the one who’s fucking deep, darling.” David was still grinning, and he drove his hips forward at the word ‘deep’, forcing himself further inside Ripley. Ripley laughed breathlessly, his eyelids fluttering as David pounded into him.

“You always knew how to hit the spot.” He drew in his breath through his teeth with a hiss as David’s movements became more rapid, the steady rub of his cock back and forth leaving Ripley teetering on the edge. He grabbed onto David’s buttocks. “Just fuck me, you bastard! It’s the last fucking time, for Christ’s sake!”

David quickened his movements, his cock stabbing into Ripley, harder and harder. He would feel this, the next day. He would feel it in two fucking days’ time! But that was what he wanted. An ache for two days was a small price to pay for a fleeting memory of the love of his life. Jesus, what if he asked David to really hurt him, something that would last – to bruise him, to cut him… Ripley squeezed his eyes shut. That was foolish pre-orgasm thought. He’d never let David do that, not to him. Maybe that was the real difference, between him and all the others... He shook his head to clear it, not wanting to think about that now, his fingernails digging into David’s buttocks, spurring him on.

“I’m nearly fucking there, you cunt.” His words were spat out in panting gasps, tinted with anger from those fleeting thoughts of violence, of David's other pursuits. But David wasn’t really listening to him now, jolting back and forth as his own orgasm neared and burst over him.

“Fucking hell! Oh, Ripley, fucking _hell_!” He groaned. And the words washed through Ripley, the sound of David calling out his name…. He wanted to tell David he loved him again but instead he closed his eyes and grit his teeth, his own orgasm tearing through him. His entire body shuddered as his cock spat between them, spraying come across David’s stomach.

Ripley drew a deep, shuddering breath. And then he reached up to grab the back of David’s head, dragging it down towards him and kissing him fervently. And, despite himself, he said.

“I fucking _love_ you.” And David grinned again.

“I fucking know.” He said, for the second time. But this time his words were fond.


	5. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Detective Carlisle finds out some rather unexpected things about Ripley Holden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wallowing in the perennial resurrection of my David Morrissey obsession, I remembered I never actually finished posting this. Good God, Ripley Holden! *ahem*

Detective Carlisle did a double take, his usual confident manner slipping for a moment as he stared at the retired nurse sitting across from him. Blythe’s mouth had dropped open: he wasn’t even _trying_ to hide the fact he was stunned.

“I’m sorry, Mr King. Could you repeat that please?”

“I said it’s not Ripley Holden you’re after.” Brian King didn’t seem to notice the two policemen’s surprise. “It was that boyfriend of his who was the real trouble.”

“Could you clarify what you mean by that?”

“Well, he were a little psychopath! He never should have been in Whittingham, that one. He should have been in prison, but he knew how to work the system even as a kid.” The nurse didn’t seem to have quite understood Carlisle, so the detective tried again.

“When you say ‘boyfriend’, Mr King, what exactly do you mean?” He asked. Brian frowned, diverted from his tirade about something that still riled him even after all these years.

“Well, what do people usually mean?” He clearly thought it was a stupid question. “I don’t know how else to put it. His young man. His sweetheart.”

“So it was a _romantic_ partnership?”

“Aye, if that little shit were capable of romance. Ripley adored him, I know that.”

“I apologise if this question sounds rather crass, Mr King, but given my knowledge of Ripley Holden I’m finding this revelation rather unexpected, so….” Carlisle paused a moment. “Was it a sexual relationship?”

“It was that.” Brian nodded, not seeming bothered by the question. “They weren’t stupid. They knew full well if we caught them at it one of them would get transferred to another ward. We saw the occasional kiss, and they was a bit more familiar with each other than you might have expected. That were all.”

This wasn’t quite true. There had been a couple of occasions early on when one or other of the nurses had witnessed a little more. Brian remembered one day in particular, barely two months after Ripley had been admitted. They were still calling him John, then. Brian had been in the day room, trying to soothe a 13-year-old out of a meltdown, when Rueben yelled for him. He’d raced into the toilets to find Rueben dragging David out of one of the cubicles (which hardly offered much in the way of privacy, given they didn’t lock nor the doors meet the ground). David’s fly was unfastened, his cock flapping, and there was a smug, self-satisfied grin on his face. It wasn’t a particular surprise to Brian to see Ripley on his knees in the toilet stall, his cheeks rather red.

Rueben had dragged David off to solitary and Brian led Ripley out to the chairs by the nurses’ station. Ripley’s embarrassment had turned to sullenness by then, and Brian wasn’t sure he’d get much out of him.

“Look, lad, I know this is awkward but I have to ask. Did David force you into this?” It wouldn’t be the first time, he added silently. Ripley stared mulishly at the ground and shook his head.

“John, look at me.” This didn’t get a response. “I need you to tell me what happened. David’s going to be in a lot of trouble if you don’t.” Finally, the boy looked up.

“I know you always blame David for everything.” He said. “But I wanted to do it.” His face wrinkled in a scowl that looked rather more childish than he was probably aware. “It’s the only thing worth doing round here, any road.”

“All right.” Brian said. “But if he ever tries to push you into anything you don’t want to do, you tell me, okay?” Ripley shrugged, looking at the ground again.

“I don’t see why you give a shit.”

“You’re under age, lad.” Brian tried to explain. “You both are.” Ripley shrugged again.

“So you’re gonna stop us until we're sixteen?” He said belligerently.

Brian sighed, shaking his head. “Sixteen won’t make any difference, John. It’s not legal till you’re 21.”

“Well, that’s fucking stupid.” The boy retorted, still not looking up. Brian rather agreed with him.

“I’m going to give you two pieces of advice, okay?” He said instead. “The first one I’ve been telling you till I’m blue in the face, but I’m going to give it another go. Stay away from David. I can see he’s got you hanging on his every word, but he’ll do you no good in the long run.”

“David’s the only thing that makes my life worth living.” Ripley was still staring at his shoes, but Brian could tell the anger in his words masked a panic that David might be taken away from him. He sighed. Against all his better judgment, he gave Ripley the second piece of advice.

“Well, if you want to stay on a ward with David then _don’t get caught_.” He said. Ripley looked up at last, surprise written all over his face. He knew full well how much Brian disliked David, but Brian had witnessed the change in Ripley as his friendship with David developed. The lad was still a turbulent mess of emotions but he had a spark now – even an optimism at times – that had already taken him a world away from the suicidal basket case he’d trudged in as. “I mean it.” He said, firmly. “We won’t split you up unless you give us a reason to. So just keep it in your pants, both of you.” He didn’t really expect them to follow the last piece of advice, but he had to say it. Ripley nodded slowly.

“Thanks.” He said at last. The sulkiness had gone from his tone. Brian managed a smile.

“Take care, okay John?” He squeezed the lad’s shoulder kindly.

“It’s Ripley.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The boys call me Ripley.” The lad’s tone was awkward again, and he looked away from Brian. “You can too, if you like.”

Brian almost smiled to himself, remembering. He’d been rather touched by that moment. It was the first time he’d really gotten through to Ripley, and he supposed he had David to thank for that, in a way. He and Rueben had agreed not to write the whole debacle up. It wasn’t just Ripley who had improved, as Rueben pointed out. The entire atmosphere on the ward had changed, since David had something else to occupy himself with rather than causing trouble wherever he could. Both Brian and Rueben knew they could lose their jobs if their willingness to cast a blind eye was discovered, but it seemed a worthwhile risk to protect the vulnerable. After all, if David was transferred he’d only get up to his old tricks elsewhere, and who knew _what_ state it would leave Ripley in? The lads _had_ been more careful after that, too. Another sign of Ripley’s influence, no doubt, because David wasn’t one for caution.

“But you think they were doing more than that in private?” Carlisle’s Scottish brogue interrupted Brian’s reminiscence and he started.

“I know they were.” He admitted. “Although it weren’t until later I found it out. David was discharged a few months before Ripley. They wrote to each other quite regular after that. We didn’t interfere with any of the kids’ letters, they had little enough that was private in that place.” He paused for a moment. “When Ripley went before the committee for his discharge, we already knew what the result was going to be, so we packed his things for him. He’d kept all of David’s letters.” He shook his head. “I’ve seen a lot, detective, but I’ll admit I were shocked by the things they said.” He swallowed. He and Rueben had both been horrified, knowing that they’d effectively sanctioned the things they were reading about. While neither of them had been naïve enough to expect a pair of horny teenagers to keep their hands off each other, they had somehow not expected it to extend to buggery. Brian recalled David’s worst offence, a while before Ripley was admitted, and felt physically sick. They’d caught the boy in one of the bedrooms, with a young lad who was so far gone he was practically catatonic. David had him bent over the bed with his trousers round his ankles, his erect penis brushing the other lad’s buttocks.

It was just chance that they got there in time to stop him raping the boy. But, because they had, the board decided he should be given another chance. After a week in solitary he was back on the ward, with no privileges and a new rule for all the staff that he was _never_ to be left alone with another boy. Not that that stopped him making a nuisance of himself, although even David seemed to realise for once that he’d gone too far. But Brian would never forget bursting into that room and finding him and – what was even worse – the nonchalant way David had given himself up, as if he’d merely been caught pinching a chocolate bar. That was when he stopped making excuses for the lad, when he decided that David’s only purpose in getting into Whittingham (because he was pretty sure the boy had done so intentionally) was to take advantage of those weaker than himself. If Brian had believed in such a thing as evil, he’d have wondered whether he’d met it in that fifteen-year-old kid. He swallowed hard, staring at the table as Carlisle continued.

“Ripley told us that, when he left Whittingham, it was a friend named David that he turned to. A David Williams, to be exact. Would this be the same boy?”

“Aye, that’s right.”

“Did you know that the pair continued their relationship outside the asylum?”

“I found out later.” Brian admitted. “I saw them in Blackpool, all over each other. Two years and nothing had changed.” He didn’t tell the detective what he’d tried to do about it. He’d known it wasn’t supposed to be any of his business – neither of them were in his care anymore. But he couldn’t bear it and, after a month of stewing over the matter, he’d looked up Ripley’s father.

Andrew Price still lived in the same little council terrace in a quiet road on the outskirts of town. But he seemed to have crumbled in on himself since Brian had last seen him in the waiting room at Whittingham. Then he had been stern and commanding – tall, broad-shouldered and preacher-like, in an Old Testament, fire and brimstone sort of way. Two years later he seemed smaller, somehow, his voice distant, a dull echo of his former self.

“My name’s Brian King.” Brian introduced himself. “I’m here about your son.”

“You’d better come inside.” Andrew had not seemed surprised by this introduction. He’d taken Brian into the front room, where dust lay heavy on the crucifix over the mantelpiece. The room was too hot, the air fuggy. A motionless woman reclined in one corner of an old floral sofa, gazing into space. Brian recognised her as Ripley’s mother, further gone than she had been even when he last met her. Andrew ignored her, motioning Brian towards the armchair.

“You’re from Whittingham, aren’t you?” He said, sitting opposite Brian. “I’ve been expecting this. He’s back inside, is he?” When Brian shook his head, Andrew looked surprised. “Prison then?” He thought for a moment, then added dismally. “Or dead, of course.”

“No, Mr Price, Rip- I mean John’s alive and well.” Brian reassured him. He wasn’t sure if Andrew looked relieved or disappointed by this news. “I saw him recently, on the seafront in town.”

“Then why are you here?” Andrew didn’t understand. Brian wasn’t quite sure how to broach the subject.

“When he was in Whittingham, your son met a lad called David.” He began. He saw Andrew’s expression darken. “You know him?”

“Aye, it was that little pervert took my son away from me! He threatened me with a knife. That was the last time I seen John.” Andrew scowled. Brian couldn’t help but wonder that he had never tried to track Ripley down. Blackpool wasn’t that big a place, after all.

“Well, that boy’s trouble, believe me.” Brian explained. “Your lad can’t seem to see it, but someone needs to rescue him from David’s clutches, Mr Price.”

“What do you expect me to do about it?” Andrew’s tone became angrier. He sounded more like Ripley now, Brian thought.

“John isn’t yet eighteen, Mr Price. While you can’t force him to return home, you could alert the authorities to his situation. He’s homeless and drinking heavily.” Brian could try and do something himself, but he knew it would have more weight coming from a parent. Andrew Price shook his head.

“I washed my hands of that boy when he walked out of here.” He said. “For fifteen years I tried to get him to see the light, but the little bastard broke every law he knew how to. He’s beyond saving, I’ll tell you that.”

“He’s not a bad lad.” Brian protested. “He’s easily led, but all he needs is affection, a bit of support.” Things you never gave him, he thought bitterly. Andrew’s attitude was starting to rile him.

“Affection? Is that what you call it?” Andrew snorted in disbelief. He got to his feet, striding out of the room and for a moment Brian thought that was it, the end of the interview. Then he returned, throwing a pile of handwritten notepaper in front of Brian. “Do you want to know how far from heaven that boy has slipped? _This_ is what he left when he walked out of this house. A catalogue of filth and perversion!”

Brian picked up a few pages, leafing through them. Words and phrases in scrawled, desperate handwriting jumped out at him: “that time you fucked me up against the tree in Whittingham”, “my cock in your mouth”, “writing with one hand, the other on me dick, thinking of you while I get hard”. And then, even worse, “That bastard busted me up fucking good tonight. It hurts when I breathe but I don’t care. I’ll knock one out anyway because knowing it’d fucking kill him to think of us together is the only thing that keeps me going.” He shook his head, speechless, remembering Ripley’s tirade on the seafront. _You sent me back to my father, you arsehole!_ The poor kid never stood a chance.

Andrew Price misread Brian’s expression. He must have been so fixated on Ripley’s sexual transgressions that he’d forgotten the letters implicated him.

“Take them.” He said angrily. “I don’t want that filth polluting this house any more. If you want to get him away from this lad, there’s enough there to get both the little bastards locked up.”

Brian gathered the pages together, feeling sick. He didn’t know what to say. Part of him wanted to rebuke Andrew Price for everything he’d done, but he knew it was too late. In the end, he got up and left without another word. But he kept the letters.

Again, Detective Carlisle interrupted the memories.

“What is it that makes you think that David’s responsible for this crime?” He asked.

Brian cleared his throat.

“Look, I know it’s a police investigation, but I do take patient confidentiality seriously, no matter I’m retired and off the register.” He said. He was well aware that his dislike of David could easily lead him into saying more than he strictly ought to – perhaps it already had. And he couldn’t admit some of the things David had done in Whittingham without confessing errors he himself had made. “I’ve told you as much as I have because I know you’re wrong about Ripley Holden. You think he’s responsible for this crime because he has a messed up past. Well, the most messed up thing that kid ever did was get involved with David Williams. You may not have enough evidence to get David’s records from Whittingham yet, I don’t know. If you do, then there might be more I can tell you. What I _can_ tell you is that David has a police record – my guess is it’s a long one by now, though he’s a slippery son-of-a-bitch so he might surprise me. But he had one before he came to Whittingham. I’d start there, if I was you.”

*

Before he left, Brian had given the policemen a handful of papers: Ripley’s letters from twenty-five years back. He’d reasoned with himself that those were nothing to do with the hospital and patient confidentiality, though he’d felt guilty all the same. But there might be something the detectives could use to help track David down.

Carlisle sat at his desk, reading through the lurid prose. He still couldn’t share Brian’s support for Ripley Holden, but this was a surprising twist nonetheless. And he admitted that even he felt a twinge of sympathy when reading about some of the things Ripley’s father had done to him.

“Is that part of the Hooley case?” Jim Albright was standing over him. Carlisle started, looking up, but he reasoned that Albright couldn’t read the letters from that height. Ripley’s hand-writing was bad enough even when he wasn’t busy using his right hand for something else!

“Can I help you with anything, Detective?” Carlisle said smoothly. Albright was looking awkward.

“There’s a lot of bad publicity around this case, Carlisle.” He said hesitantly. “If you’re still looking into Ripley Holden, you need to look wider. Get this tied up before…” He tailed off. Carlisle could guess what he was thinking – “before I lose my investment money”!

“You’ll be pleased to know have that I _have_ just widened the case.” Carlisle’s words were greeted by a grin of relief.

“You need any local help on this?”

“Well, I wonder if you’ve ever come across a childhood friend of Ripley’s: a chap named David. I’m waiting for his record to come through, but I thought you might be able to help in the meantime.”

“David?” Albright looked surprised.

“I take it the name rings a bell?”

“It’s a bit of a coincidence, that’s all.” Albright shook his head, still sounding confused. “He’s in town. I never met him before last week, when I ran into him and Ripley in the Jolly Roger. Ripley’s put him up in the flats round back of the casino.”

“I see. Thanks very much, Jim.” Carlisle stared back down at the letters thoughtfully. It looked like Brian might have been right after all: it _was_ rather a coincidence that David had shown up at the same time as the murder. The question was, how close were he and Ripley Holden now?

*

Carlisle sent Blythe to check out the flats, and called Ripley in again for questioning. He wanted this all on the record, so Ripley was hauled down to the station. He put up rather less resistance than Carlisle expected.

“I was beginning to think you’d gone off me, Detective. It’s near seventy two hours since our last date!” Ripley leant back casually in his chair, exuding a confidence that deeply irritated Carlisle.

“I’m sorry to call you in again, Mr Holden, but several other things have come to light since we last spoke. It concerns that friend you mentioned, David Williams.” Carlisle laid his hands on the folder in front of him, not wanting to reveal the letters just yet. “I’ve been speaking to someone you might remember: Brian King. He used to be a nurse on the adolescent ward at Whittingham Hospital.” Ripley raised his eyebrows.

“Old Brian? He’s still going is he?”

“He’s not quite seventy, Mr Holden. Not so old as all that.” Ripley shrugged.

“Well, all adults look ancient when you’re a kid.” He fished a packet of cigarettes out of his jacket, fiddling with it. Perhaps he was more nervous than he sounded, Carlisle thought.

“I’m afraid you can’t smoke in here, Mr Holden. Can I get you a coffee instead?”

“Nah, I can’t stand that machine crap.” Ripley put the packet down on the table. There was a slight pause, and then he said. “I’ll bet our Brian had a lot to say. He always had it in for me.”

“Not so much for you, actually.” Carlisle chose his words carefully. “It was David he was riled up about. Your _boyfriend_ , as he put it.” His eyes narrowed a little, watching Ripley closely for his reaction.

“Well, all male nurses are queer, aren’t they?” Ripley waved a hand to accompany his sweeping generalisation. “They see it everywhere, whether it is or not.”

“Mr King seemed to think it was fairly evident that your relationship with David was sexual.” Carlisle continued. Ripley snorted.

“Come on, Carlisle. You know full well I’ve an eye for the ladies!” He laughed.

Carlisle didn’t answer. Instead he opened the folder and slid a handwritten page across the table.

“Is this your writing, Mr Holden?” He asked. Ripley recognised the letter at once. His eyes widened and he picked it up, scanning the words. Then he laughed.

“I don’t suppose it’s any use denying it.” He said. He turned the page, reading again, and his mouth twitched. Carlisle had intentionally chosen one of the juiciest extracts. He’d expected a little more embarrassment. “Where the hell did you get this?” Ripley asked.

“Your father gave them to Brian King.” Carlisle told him. Ripley’s brow furrowed.

“They was all in it together, those bastards. They’re the ones ought to be locked up.” He was still scowling when he looked up at Carlisle. “But if you read the letters, you know full well what my arsehole of a father did to me.”

“I know.” Carlisle nodded, although he refused to express any sympathy aloud. Ripley regarded him for a moment, as if waiting for him to do so, and then he shrugged again.

“David took me away from all that. Sucking his cock were the least I could do in return, don’t you think?” He certainly seemed to have got over any earlier nerves, his words as blunt as ever. Carlisle stared at him for a moment, but Ripley’s gaze didn’t falter.

“How long did your relationship last?” The detective asked at last.

“Near on three years. Ten months in Whittingham and two years and a bit of change after.”

“Then what happened?” Carlisle assumed this was the important part of the story. But he also knew Ripley wasn’t going to tell him anything without a struggle.

“We broke up. We was young, it happens. Things went to shit and David left Blackpool, far as I know.”

“Have you seen him since?” Carlisle phrased his question carefully, hoping to catch Ripley in another lie.

“It weren’t a peaceful break-up. Why would I see him again?” Ripley’s reply was instantaneous, but Carlisle didn’t miss the fact he didn’t answer the question directly.

“Even after twenty-five years, you still hold a grudge?” The detective asked. Ripley shrugged, trying to make light of the matter.

“Why d'you think I’ve never gone gay since?” Ripley’s voice was light, but he wasn’t smiling. Carlisle decided to cut to the chase.

“Well, I must say it seems rather a coincidence that an old friend of yours named David Britten suddenly appeared in town last week. The day after Mike Hooley’s body was found at the arcade, to be exact.” Carlisle gave a thin-lipped smile. “You know a bit about gambling, Mr Holden. Would you expect those odds?”

Ripley had known it would all come out, though this was perhaps a little sooner than he’d expected.

“Don’t you know how the slots work, detective? The punters rarely realise it, but there’s always the same chance of winning, no matter how long it is since the machine last paid out.” His words were casual. “Anyway, I thought it was David Williams you was after?”

“It seems rather likely to me that they’re the same man.” Carlisle said. “Coincidence is all very well, but I would find it _extremely_ surprising if there were two men named David whose photo you carried round in your wallet.” He paused a second, eyes piercing through Ripley. “Unless, perhaps, you make a habit of sleeping with men with that name?”

Fucking Albright! Ripley thought. He shook his head.

“So, happen you’re right, it’s the same guy. But, like I said, it were chance he were passing through. Came to see if I’d forgiven him after all these years.” He knew Carlisle would start on the murder soon, and he wondered how to derail the conversation. “It were a personal thing. Just bad timing on his part.”

“And had you? Forgiven him, I mean?” Carlisle was leaning forward now. He knew Ripley was changing the subject. Ripley wanted to wipe that smug expression off his face.

“Well I let him bugger me, if that’s what you mean.” Ripley’s words were thrown out carelessly, but they did the trick. Carlisle’s head shot up in surprise.

“You resumed your sexual relationship with Mr Williams?” His brows were knitted in confusion. This didn’t correlate with the Ripley Holden he thought he knew.

“Aye. Why’d you think I put him up behind the arcade? Easy access, know what I mean?” Ripley shrugged, keeping his manner casual, all the better to wrongfoot Carlisle. “He were in town for a shag. Like I said, it were personal.”

“I see.” Carlisle said. “And the meeting in the Jolly Roger, where Jim Albright saw you? Not one of your usual haunts, is it? Why the secrecy?” Ripley barked out a laugh.

“You think I want my friends to know I take it up the arse? Of course I met him somewhere private! Yet more bad luck that Albright turned up there.” He shook his head. “Just one of those weeks when the odds are all over the place.”

“Is David still at the flats behind the arcade?” Blythe had phoned to say that there was no answer, but he was waiting outside just in case. Carlisle wondered how long it was worth him hanging around for. He expected Ripley to evade the question, but the man shook his head.

“No, he only stayed two nights.”

“So he left town around the same time you had that fight – when I interviewed you three days ago.” Carlisle was quick to do the maths. Ripley shrugged.

“Looks like this case is riddled with coincidences, eh detective?”

“You’re denying that the fight was related to David?” Carlisle raised an eyebrow. Ripley didn’t answer. “We’ve pulled David’s record.” Carlisle went on. “It’s not as colourful as Brian King anticipated, but there’s a good handful of juvenile offences, some of them distinctly unpleasant. My guess is he got better at covering his tracks. And those pseudonyms we know he’s fond of presumably helped.” He looked at Ripley, who shrugged.

“Brian was always telling me he were a bad lot. But I never really knew what he did. What’s on his record? A bit of petty theft, a fight or two?” Ripley knew he sounded convincing.

“Actually, most of the offences are sexual in nature.” Carlisle said. “In some cases violent as well.” He looked piercingly at Ripley. “In my line of work, those kinds of juvenile crimes often lead to more extreme ones later in life. Like the Mike Hooley case, for instance.”

“David wouldn’t do a thing like that.” Ripley lied smoothly.

“If you’re so sure of that, perhaps you’d let us search the bedsit, Mr Holden.” Carlisle suggested.

“Don’t you need a warrant for that?” Ripley folded his arms, his tone verging on the antagonistic again.

“Not if you give us the keys.” Carlisle gave a thin-lipped smile. He started at Ripley for a few moments longer, a battle of wills. Then Ripley shrugged, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a bunch of keys. He took one off the ring, placing it on the table in front of Carlisle.

“If it’s going to stop you bastards harassing my family and ruining my business, then by all means take a look around.”

“That’s very co-operative of you, Mr Holden.” Carlisle was still suspicious of Ripley, that much was obvious. But David was the main suspect now. Good. The plan was working.

*

Ripley wondered if David was aware how much he actually knew about his ex-lover’s past. If he did, he probably wouldn’t much care. That was typical David. But it indicated how much their relationship had started to break down after London that he hadn’t told David when he’d run into Brian again. Brian had been looking for Ripley, that much was clear. Luckily for Brian the pair had returned to the same squat (which seemed like home, after the cold, wet misery of the dirty London streets), or Ripley doubted he’d have tracked them down so easily.

Brian was obviously taking care not to encounter David either. Ripley didn’t notice him when he left the building, and it was only after he’d turned two corners that there was a shout a few paces behind him.

“Ripley! Ripley, lad!”

Ripley recognised the voice, but he stopped and turned all the same, eyes narrowing as Brian jogged up behind him, breathing hard. He wasn’t young or in the best of shape.

“What do you want?” Ripley demanded belligerently. Brian’s manner seemed very different from his hostility on the seafront but Ripley still didn’t trust him.

“Come and sit down and have a cup of tea with me, lad.” Brian’s voice was almost pleading. “There’s a few things I want to tell you. About David.” Ripley frowned, suspicious.

“Why the fuck would I want to listen to you?” He snarled. Brian nodded, a little sadly.

“You don’t have to believe me, but I should have told you years ago.” He sighed a little. “Just hear me out, and then you can go on your way.” He paused for a second. “ _Please_ , lad.” There was a hint of desperation in his voice. Ripley couldn’t think why it meant so much to the old man. He stood there for a moment, shifting from foot to foot, still about ready to march away. But he didn’t.

“Half an hour.” He said finally. “I’ll give you half an hour.” Then he almost smiled. “So long as there’s cake along with that cuppa.”

Brian nodded, smiling with relief.

“There’ll be cake.”

They went to a café on a side street off the sea front. It had chintzy curtains and a sign for cream teas: the sort of touristy shit Ripley and David would never have given a second glance. Brian walked through to the back room nonetheless, and Ripley was glad both that he had and that he hadn’t made an issue out of it. A waitress handed them menus but Ripley ordered without even looking at it.

“Pot of tea and a cheese scone. And Victoria sponge and all!” He realised this might have come across as rude and followed it up with a charming grin. “Please, love.” The waitress was a few years older than Ripley, and rolled her eyes a bit at his familiar tone before turning to Brian.

“And you, sir?”

“Just a tea, thanks.” The waitress nodded and left. There was silence for a moment. It wasn’t a busy time of day and Ripley and Brian were the only two customers in the back room.

“So, what did you want then?” Ripley asked eventually. Brian chewed his lip, as if working out the words.

“Look, lad, I know I pitched this badly when you was at Whittingham. I warned you off David and that was a mistake. You never had anything, I know, so why would you listen to me when you had David?” Ripley shrugged, thin shoulder blades jerking inside his t—shirt.

“You said David was using me.”

“Aye, I know that. Maybe I was right, maybe I was wrong. That wasn’t really the point.” Brian leaned forward, his face earnest. “I know David did good for you, Ripley. You changed when you met him. He gave you something to believe in. And you changed _him_ , that was true and all. So I never thought to tell you what he’d changed from.” Brian paused for a moment. “I never realised what he was doing to you until you was about to leave the hospital.” Ripley scowled, fiddling with the packets in the sugar bowl.

“He never did nothing I didn’t want.” He said sullenly. Brian nodded.

“Okay, okay, maybe he didn’t.” He paused for a second. “But then maybe you’d be the first, lad.” Ripley really didn’t want to hear this, although a part of him knew where Brian was going. He didn’t answer, staring sullenly at the table, tearing at one of the white paper packets.

“When David arrived at Whittingham, his lawyer was with him.” Brian went on. He didn’t seem bothered by Ripley’s silence. If anything, it had given him licence to talk. “He was a pale, rather stunned looking young man. He seemed surprised he’d got David into the asylum in the first place: everyone expected him to be given a prison sentence. I’d heard the story – we all read about it in the papers. But because David was a minor, they were never allowed to print his name. It wasn’t until this confused young attorney grabbed my arm and suggested I keep an eye on David that I got wind of what case it might be. So I asked to see his referral.”

Ripley tried not to react, not to look interested. He didn’t know exactly what David’s crimes were, although he’d always had an inkling. But more than that, he knew he was closer to David than anyone else had ever been, and it angered him that anyone could tell him something about his boyfriend that he didn’t already know. Luckily, they were interrupted by the arrival of their order, the waitress clinking down cups and plates in front of them with barely a smile.

“Enjoy your tea.” She said, rather dully, and left, still without looking at them.

“David was in trouble with the law, on and off, since he was about twelve.” Brian went on, when the waitress disappeared through the beaded curtain that covered the doorway. “When his case went to court, it turned out there were other offences that had never been reported as well. When he was thirteen he was kicked out by a foster family who claimed he’d been abusing their eleven-year-old son. Near on a year later he got in similar trouble back in the children’s home.” Brian paused, stirring sugar grimly into his tea. “One of his old carers told the court that he never seemed to respond to punishment. He’d just accept it and wait until he got another opportunity. They reckoned there were probably many occasions when he simply didn’t get caught.” Brian paused again but Ripley didn’t look up, emptying a fourth pack of sugar into his tea instead.

“He was fourteen and a half when they caught him red-handed. Later, the other lad said that David had bribed him to let him tie him up. He claimed he’d thought it was a game, although he probably knew it was sexual.” Brian took a gulp of tea, gearing himself up for the next bit. “David took a knife to him before he raped him. The lad had superficial wounds on his chest and back. He was still tied up and bleeding when they found him. David just shrugged and gave himself up.”

Ripley tore a piece off the scone, although he wasn’t hungry. When he tried to eat it, it tasted like dust and got stuck in his throat. He took a gulp of tea to wash it down and then lit a cigarette instead, feeling shaky. Brian looked sadly at him.

“He was no different in Whittingham, Ripley.” He went on. “I think you know that. It was his inability to account for his actions – or apparently even to understand that they were wrong – that got him in the asylum in the end. But there wasn’t much evidence of mental disorder. I always thought he’d get sent back to the nick when the shrinks finally realised, but it never seemed to happen. About two months before you arrived he was caught about to rape another lad, but even that didn’t make a difference.” Brian paused again, for longer this time, and Ripley realised he was expecting a response. He knew there was no point insisting that what Brian said was a lie. Some of it he’d previously suspected, though he found that even so he was rather unsettled to hear how extensive David’s crimes really were.

“But, like you said, he changed when we got together.” He said at last, his words sounding childishly stubborn even to his own ears. “All this stuff you’re telling me, it’s in the past. David’s not like that anymore.” He looked up at Brian at last, a challenging glare, but it was met with a sad shake of the head.

“I’m sorry, lad, but he hasn’t changed.”

“How the fuck would you know?” Ripley demanded belligerently. Brian didn’t say anything for a long moment, fumbling his own cigarettes out of his pocket and lighting up.

“Today wasn’t the first day I waited outside your building.” He admitted at last.

“You’ve been spying on us?” Ripley was horrified. He rose a few inches from his chair, considering walking out. But, despite everything, he wanted to know what Brian claimed to have seen, so in the end he sat down again, stomach churning. And Brian’s manner was quite apologetic when he nodded.

“Aye, it’s not something I’m proud of.” He said slowly. “But I needed to know.” He refilled his cup from the teapot. “He’s certainly not faithful to you, lad.” Ripley shrugged, although inside he was a seething mass of conflicted emotions.

“I never expected him to be.” This wasn’t quite true. He’d only found out fairly recently that David was sleeping with other people. There’d been a new lad moved into the squat, in his early twenties and very openly gay. He’d tried it on with Ripley, and when Ripley told him he wasn’t interested, he’d assumed it was out of loyalty to David. “You know that boyfriend of yours doesn’t have the same principles, right?” He’d mocked, admitting that he’d screwed David a week ago. Ripley pretended not to care, but it had annoyed him enough to confront David. The worst thing, he told David, was being made to feel stupid, like David was taking him for a ride. David accepted that readily enough, though. So now they had one rule: no sex with anyone they lived with. Everyone else was fair game. So Brian’s words didn’t really come as a surprise, though they still rankled Ripley more than he’d let on.

“Okay, okay.” Brian nodded. He stubbed out his cigarette and re-filled his teacup, obviously pondering exactly how to pitch this. “Maybe that part’s no surprise, but I can’t imagine you know that he’s up to his old tricks. He spends quite a bit of time at Lady Luck – you know, that run-down old arcade near the end of the sea front. It’s got a bit of a reputation, that place, and I’ve seen him pick lads up there a few times. Usually they don’t go far – quick fumble behind the bins or summat. But yesterday he took this skinny blond kid – can’t have been much more than 16 – up to the bus stop. I had the car nearby, so I followed the bus.” He paused a second. “They got out up in Layton and walked a few streets away to a run-down block of garages. It didn’t look like anyone much uses them. My guess is David rents one of them for a few quid – he had a key, any road. There was no one else around when they went inside and closed the door.”

“So he fucked this lad.” Ripley shrugged. “Doesn’t sound like the kid was protesting.”

“I told myself that too, lad.” Brian agreed. “I was sat there in the car near on three hours. I kept telling myself I should leave, but something kept me there. It was getting dark when the garage door swung up again. I could see both of them framed in the doorway for a minute. It looked odd, even from a distance. David had his shirt unbuttoned, and there was something dark on his chest. The other kid was standing awkwardly – tense, like he wanted to run but didn’t quite dare. He turned to walk away between the rows of garages. He got faster the further he got, looking back over his shoulder once as if he couldn’t quite believe it. David gave him a wave, which the lad didn’t return, and then he pulled down the garage door. The boy broke into a jolting run, then, which made it clear that he was limping. As he got closer I could see there was blood on his face.” Brian paused a moment. Ripley didn’t know how to respond, so he didn’t say anything.

“The lad was coming right towards my car.” Brian continued. “So I wound the window down and called out to him, asking if he was all right. He jumped, looking terrified for a second, and then glanced back over his shoulder towards the garage. The garage door was shut, so he came right up to the car and asked if I could give him a lift home.” Brian paused again, chewing his lip.

“So he told you that David attacked him, did he?” Ripley’s words were accusing, as if Brian might be making the entire story up, even though he knew this was unlikely. Brian shook his head.

“He wouldn’t tell me anything, lad.” He said sadly. “If he had, I wouldn’t be having this conversation with you now – I’d have gone straight to the police. He denied he was hurt, but close to it was pretty obvious the smear on his cheek was blood, and there was another patch on his neck – not enough to seem serious, but it were there.” Brian sighed sadly. “And I’ve seen enough traumatised kids to know that’s what he was. That boy’s entire manner had changed from when he disappeared into the garage with David.”

Ripley stared down at the cake crumbs on his plate, feeling sick. What Brian was telling him didn’t quite make sense, but he knew enough about David to wonder. Brian gave him a smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Ripley.” His words sounded genuine. “I know how much David means to you. But I can’t let him get away with this.” He fished a folded sheet of paper out of his jacket pocket and slid it across the table. Ripley didn’t touch it. “I don’t want you getting caught up in this.” Brian went on. “You’ve had a hard enough life as it is. But I know you’ll want proof, so I’ll give you five days. That’s the address of the garage. Confront David or leave, it’s up to you. But next Monday I’m going to the police.”

“Are you threatening us?” Ripley couldn’t even light a cigarette now, his hands were shaking too badly. He pushed the packet around the table instead, swallowing hard. Brian sighed again.

“I think you know to do the right thing, lad.” He said. Then he got to his feet. “Stay and finish your tea. I’ll settle up on me way out.”

Ripley’s mind was spinning by the end of the conversation. ‘ _Why,_ David?’ He thought helplessly, over and over, ‘Why did you have to fucking do this?’ He couldn’t touch the cake, even though he sat there another twenty minutes after Brian left. Finally he pushed away the cold mug of tea, slipped the sheet of paper into his pocket without opening it, and left.


	6. Ownership

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Present-day Natalie Holden gets a surprise... but not as much of a one as Ripley did in a disused garage back in Layton in 1979.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the warnings apply quite specifically to this chapter!

In retrospect, Ripley was fairly sure that self-interest would have stopped Brian King from going to the police about David. The nurse had acted well outside the boundaries of what he should have done over the years, and would lose his job at the very least, if not wind up in court himself. Brian had told Ripley what he had because he thought it would force Ripley’s hand, that the best way of stopping David was by getting Ripley to do it. Possibly Ripley had realised this even at the time. Certainly, it was a fight with David that decided him, not Brian’s ultimatum. That was why it was four days before Ripley went out to the garage. Four agonising days in which he tried and failed to pretend that everything was normal and he and David rowed constantly as a result. David couldn’t understand why.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” David snarled, pinning Ripley to the floor after one particularly nasty argument had ended in a punch-up. Ripley could taste his own blood in his mouth, and this irritated him further, reminding him of Brian's tale. He shook his head, mulishly refusing to answer.

“I ought to fuck some sense into you!” David’s words were viciously angry, although despite – or perhaps because of – this, Ripley could tell he was half hard.

“Is that what you do to the other blokes?” Ripley retorted bitterly. David's mouth twisted in a sneering smirk.

“Oh honey, you have no idea.” He reached out to run his forefinger over Ripley’s split lip and then raised it to his mouth, gazing into Ripley’s eyes as he sucked the blood off.

“Why don’t you fucking tell me then?” Ripley demanded.

“I can do better than that.” David’s hands shifted downward, grabbing Ripley’s belt roughly and yanking the buckle open. “I can _show_ you.”

“You try it and I’ll cut your fucking cock off in your sleep!” Ripley spat the words furiously but David simply laughed.

“I don’t think so, baby.” He had Ripley’s fly undone by that time and was starting to pull down his jeans. That was when Ripley realised that David meant it – that he really intended to rape him. David’s smug, self-satisfied face enraged him and he raised his hands with a struggle, managing to shove David off and back onto the floor.

“Fuck you, arsehole!” Ripley staggered to his feet, eyes blazing, fists clenched. He wanted a fight – wanted to fucking _kill_ David – but the anger had gone out of David’s expression by then. His face was impassive as he stood up, shrugged, and grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair.

“Don’t wait up.” He said casually, and walked out.

After David left, Ripley went downstairs and shared a spliff with a few other squatters in a futile effort to forget and calm down. But he couldn’t stop stewing over it all.

“You’re quiet, lad.” Ted commented as he passed Ripley the joint. Ripley shrugged, taking a drag on it. “What happened to your face?” When Ripley didn’t answer, Cindy, a dreadlocked middle-aged mum who had fled a lifetime of domestic violence with her 12-year-old daughter, scowled.

“It’s that no good boyfriend of yours, innit?” She’d never been keen on David. But then she saw what she expected to see, Ripley thought.

“We had a fight, that’s all.” Ripley was fed up being cast as the victim. Why did everyone think he was so fucking helpless where David was concerned? Cindy squeezed his shoulder reassuringly, which only served to irritate Ripley further. He twisted away from her, scowling. “I can look after meself, you know!” His words were a little whiny.

“No one doubts that, Ripley.” Cindy said soothingly, making it very clear that she meant the opposite.

“The weed’s making you paranoid, man.” Tommy added in a drawl. Maybe he was right – Ripley’s head was spinning by that time. Or maybe it wasn’t the weed at all but the certain knowledge that David had been about to rape him. Did he mean as little to David as those other lads he went with? After all they’d been through together? What galled Ripley even more was that he knew exactly how it would have turned out if David had been successful. You could rile David up in the short term, but long term consequences he had no interest in whatsoever. Ripley would have threatened to leave him, and David would just have shrugged and accepted it. That was why Ripley so often just gave in. Pushing a point with David was like banging your head against a brick wall, and just as effective.

That, Ripley reflected, was reason enough not to follow through on his mid-life crisis and run off into the sunset with David – even if his family hadn’t been a strong consideration. It also struck him, as he turned his car into the front drive and killed the engine, that he didn’t want to be like David. He’d spent a lot of his youth trying to emulate the lover he idolised – wishing more than anything that he could care as little about the rest of the world as David seemed to. It had seemed like freedom at the time. But now he realised how little David had to show for this attitude. Maybe David didn’t care, but his life struck Ripley as rather lonely. What would Ripley himself be without Shyanne and Danny – without Natalie?

As he thought this, his phone beeped: a new voicemail. He fished it out of his pocket, guessing who it would be even before he heard the Scottish drawl. “Mr Holden, it’s DI Carlisle here. I’d like to ask you to come down to the station. We’re processing some material from the bedsit, and I hoped you might volunteer to give a DNA sample. Call me as soon as you get this.”

Ripley swallowed hard, realising what an idiot he’d been. He should never have let himself be taken in by David, even for a moment. If he lost his family over all this, he’d never forgive himself. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard – 2pm. Shyanne and Danny would both be out, but Natalie was home. If he told her now, there was a chance that she’d forgive him. He wouldn’t play David’s game anymore, waiting until the whole sordid story spilt out. He might not be guilty of murder, but he was pretty sure that he’d be arrested as an accessory once Carlisle had enough hard evidence of his connection to David. And there was plenty of _that_ on the bedsit sheets! Better to admit it now, before he even spoke to Carlisle, so at least Natalie would have some warning whatever she chose to do.

He clenched his hands briefly, steeling himself, and then finally got out of the car, striding with a determination he didn’t really feel to the front door.

Natalie was in the kitchen when Ripley went in, industriously emptying the dishwasher. He stood in the doorway for a few moments before she noticed him.

“Hello love.” She flashed him a smile, barely pausing what she was doing.

“Natalie, I need to talk to you for a minute.” He had no idea how or where to start. She must have caught his tone because she straightened up, looking worried.

“What’s happened?” Her brow furrowed. “Is it David?” Ripley chewed his lip.

“In a manner of speaking.” He realised too late what she was worried about and corrected himself. “There’s no danger to you and the kids, don’t worry. I just- there’s summat I need to tell you before things go any further.”

“Okay.” She took his reassurance at face value. “What is it?” Ripley shook his head.

“Come and sit down.” She followed him into the living room, and her frown deepened when he got a bottle of whiskey and two glasses out of the sideboard and poured them both a generous measure without asking if she wanted one. He saw her swallow, realising just how serious this must be.

Ripley swirled the whiskey round his glass and Natalie sat in silence, not hurrying him, knowing that he’d speak in his own time.

“I met David when I was fifteen.” Ripley said at last. She didn’t say anything, and he didn’t look directly at her, gazing off instead into the middle distance as he spoke. “After I tried to kill meself they sent me to Whittingham Hospital – you know, the big old loony bin that used to be out Preston way. I was there a little shy of a year.” He chewed his lip. “David was already inside. He took me under his wing, I suppose. I was a messed up kid, but I’d never really had anyone looking out for me before.” Ripley paused, staring into his glass for a moment. “I think I were in love with him.” He told the whiskey. He saw Natalie move out of the corner of his eye. She was surprised, certainly, but he knew she’d be sympathetic at this point. That was why he’d phrased it as he had, after all, although he knew in some ways it would make the later confession worse.

“Were you-?” Natalie began, but Ripley cut her off.

“Was I fucking him?” He finished for her. He didn’t want to hear her say it, even though he knew full well she would have phrased it somewhat differently. “Aye, I was. Maybe I could dismiss it as teenage experimentation or summat, except it lasted three years so I don’t reckon I’d convince anyone.” He saw the movement opposite as Natalie picked up her whiskey at last, taking a long gulp. He realised she might think his admission was something more than it was intended to be, so he added. “I’m not trying to tell you I’m queer, mind! David were the first man I slept with and most definitely the last. I don’t have a thing for cock or nowt. Just… David.” He finished rather pathetically.

“Okay.” Natalie said slowly. Ripley risked looking up at her. She was still frowning. She didn’t seem to know what to think. “But this must have been over twenty-five years ago. I take it you’re telling me now because of the police investigation.” Her words were hesitant. Ripley nodded.

“Aye, Carlisle’s already onto us. He dredged up some nurse from the bin as told him.” Natalie’s eyes widened a little. He gave her a minute to process this.

“Ripley, you know I’ll stand by you but… I need to know how all this fits together.” She sucked in her breath, gearing herself up to say it. “Did David kill that lad in the arcade?”

“Yes.” Ripley barely missed a beat. “He as good as admitted it, but I assumed as much before then. I figured he were capable of it, anyway.” He reached out for the whiskey bottle and refilled both their glasses. He knew the second confession was getting closer.

“Will you tell the police?” Natalie asked. Ripley shrugged.

“I’ve not got much to give ‘em. Carlisle’s on the right track, anyway.” He swallowed. “When the DNA results come through, he’ll have his proof.” She nodded, not quite understanding.

“So they’ve arrested David?”

“David’s long gone, I’d reckon.” Ripley said. “But I gave Carlisle the keys to the bedsit.” He paused a second, wondering how to say this. “He’ll have enough evidence there. So long as- well, he's already called me for a DNA sample and all.”

“You?” Natalie was frowning again. “Why would he need your DNA if you had nothing to do with it?” At least she trusted him on that point. Small mercies.

“To rule me out.” Ripley said. “There’s two sets of DNA in the bedsit. David’s and mine.” And then, because the penny _still_ didn’t seem to have dropped. “There’s plenty of both on the sheets.” He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, Natalie.”

Natalie’s fingers tightened around the glass as she realised what he meant.

“You were still sleeping with him?” Her words were uncertain, as if she couldn’t quite believe it even as she said them. And then something else hit her. “For how long?

Ripley shook his head, almost frantically. It had never crossed his mind that she might think he’d been screwing David for the last twenty-five years!

“Jesus, Natalie, it’s not like that I swear! The last time I saw him was well before I ever met you! Until just over a week ago, when he suddenly showed up out of the blue.” Just because it was true, he realised, didn’t mean she’d believe it.

“And you jumped right back into bed with him?” She was angry now, he could hear it in her voice. He swallowed, wanting to defend himself, even though that was a pretty fair analysis of the situation.

“It were a mistake, Natalie, I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you.” He realised the words sounded rather pathetic even as he said them.

“A _mistake?”_ Her voice was rising steadily. Her posture had changed, leaning forward, muscles tense. “You had his _photo_ in your wallet! You expect me to believe it was just a one-off? What the hell do you take me for, Ripley?” Ripley was shaking his head again. He should have thought this through better, realised what the implications would be.

“It was in the attic, Natalie – I kept a few things from them days, and when I realised David was back I didn’t know what he wanted. I got them out because I were _scared_ , and I burnt most of it.”

“Except the photo.” Her voice was clipped.

“Aye, except the photo.” He hung his head. “I guess… I guess I never quite stopped loving him. But I only realised it when I saw him again.” He saw her shaking her head, mouth opening and then closing, not quite able to speak.

“Are you leaving us?” She asked. He wasn’t sure whether she was pleading with him not to or implying that she wanted him to. Perhaps a bit of both.

“No, love, no. Like I said, it were a mistake.” There was no mistaking the plea in his own voice. “There was a lot of a memories there, sure, and I got carried away with it all I suppose. But the reasons why I left David in the first place – they all still exist. And I wouldn’t want to lose you and the kids in a million years!” He paused a second, feeling almost tearful. “That’s why I wanted to tell you. Before you found out any other way. In the hope that you’d stick by me.” He saw her nod curtly, and hope swept through him for a moment. And then she said.

“I need a bit of time.” She let her breath out in a rush. “I can’t process this, Ripley. I need some space.” She looked up at him then, and though her eyes were wet with tears her voice was cold, rather detached. “I want you to leave.”

“For how long?” He felt helpless. He wanted to beg her, but it wasn’t exactly his style.

“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “ _Please_ , Ripley.” Her voice was shaking a little. He got slowly to his feet. If he didn’t take anything with him, maybe that would help. Maybe it would just be for tonight.

“I’m sorry.” He said again. She nodded briefly, but didn’t reply. He got the impression she was holding back the tears, but he turned all the same and walked out.

Shyanne was striding cheerfully down the drive as he opened the front door. He held it open for her. She noticed his expression and paused.

“What’s wrong, Dad?”

“Ask your mother.” He knew his words sounded blunt and uncaring and was sorry for it as soon as they left his mouth.

“She have a go at you?” Shyanne leapt to his defence as always. “You’ll be back for dinner though, right? I’ll talk to her.”

“I’m sorry, love, I won’t be back for dinner.” He felt like he’d let her down. He grabbed her and kissed the top of your head. “I love you, you know that right?”

“Of course I do, dad! What happened?” Shyanne was worried now, but Ripley couldn’t bring himself to say anything else. He pulled away and walked to his car, leaving his daughter staring after him in confusion.

*

It was another two hours before Ripley called Carlisle back. He needed to calm down first so he drove along the coast, mulling over the conversation with Natalie. It could have gone better, certainly, but it also could have been worse. She hadn’t said she never wanted to see him again, had seemed more sad than angry when she asked him to leave. Would it have been the same if he’d confessed to an affair with a woman, he wondered? Maybe he’d never know. But he’d play the game, go in for the test, wind Carlisle up as much as he could and then… what? Where could he go?

Best not to think about that, he decided in the end. He called Carlisle from Lytham, arranged rather curtly to be at the station in an hour, and then broke the speed limit several times on the way back so he could gulp down a quick pint first.

He bumped into Jim Allbright before he even got as far as the desk to announce his presence.

“Ripley!” Allbright’s grin looked plastered on. “What are you doing here?” The DCI swept him past the desk with a wave of his hand. Ripley figured he was trying to avoid the plods knowing why his business partner was down the station. Jim strode halfway along the corridor before he paused, turning towards Ripley, expression serious.

“Look, Ripley, what’s all this about? Blythe let slip you were coming in so they could get a DNA swab. They’ve got all sorts heading off to forensics. Tell me what’s going on, mate – _please_.”

“Don’t look so worried, Jim!” Ripley clapped him on the back, excessively cheery. “You trust me, don’t you? There’s no problem – it’s just to rule me out of the enquiry. They found the body in my arcade, didn’t they? So this’ll stop Carlisle hassling us all, make sure the business stays open.” He flashed Jim Allbright a reassuring grin. It didn’t quite work.

“That’s all very well, Ripley, but I know how expensive DNA tests are. They wouldn’t be doing this unless they had something else to go on.” Allbright was still frowning.

“Well, maybe they’ve another suspect.” Ripley shrugged airily, but he was almost glad when Carlisle appeared walking towards them.

“Mr Holden! Thank you so much for coming in. I’ll take it from here, Allbright.” He said, with false amiability. Jim had to let it go, and stood watching as Ripley followed Carlisle down the hall and into an interrogation room.

There was a man in there already – tall and awkward looking, wearing gloves and round glasses. Ripley figured he was a lab geek, an assumption that was quickly confirmed.

“Dawson here’s going to take the sample, Mr Holden.” Carlisle explained, motioning to Ripley to sit down. “I’d like to have a bit more of a chat with you, so I thought we’d get this out of the way first.”

“If it’s going to stop you bastards pestering me and my family, I’m only too happy to prove my innocence.” Ripley sat down, turning his head towards Dawson. “So, how do we do this? A swab in the cheek, like on TV?” Dawson opened a plastic packet, pushing out something like a large cotton bud. He handed the plastic end to Ripley.

“That’s exactly it, Mr Holden.” His voice was quiet and rather nasal. “Just rub it on the inside of your cheek and slide it back down into the holder.”

Ripley did as he was asked, and watched as the lad packaged up the swab again, carefully placing it in a bag and then getting to his feet.

“Thanks, that’s all we need for now.” He headed for the door, and Carlisle let him out – and DC Blythe in.

“So, how long until you clear my name?” Ripley demanded. Carlisle raised his eyebrows.

“If you mean how long until we get the results, it’ll be within a week. Possibly quicker, as we’ve already sent the other samples for processing.” Carlisle was seated now, Blythe beside him. He leaned forward across the table. “I’m hoping that we’ll have tracked Mr Williams down by then. I don’t suppose you have any idea where he is?”

Ripley shrugged. “You know full well we didn’t part on good terms.”

“I don’t _know_ that, Mr Holden.” Carlisle’s words were slow and patient. “I know that when I interviewed you four days ago you’d recently been in a fight, but you neither confirmed nor denied it was with David.” He paused a moment. “Are you implying you’re happy to tell me more about it now?”

“Well, self-interest’s a pretty strong motivator, isn’t it detective?” Ripley retorted. “David threatened my family. I took exception to that, as I’m sure you can understand.”

“Ah yes, your family.” Carlisle said, rather sardonically, “You’ve shown so much concern for them throughout this whole process, after all.”

“I take it you don’t have a family, Detective?”

“I don’t. But even if I did I doubt it would push me into an affair with a suspected murderer.”

“Well, I didn’t know he were a murder suspect, did I?” Ripley scowled. “He was just a feller from me past, and I got a bit nostalgic for a time, that’s all. When he threatened my family we had a fight. He came off worse, if you want to know.”

“So where did he go after that?”

“How the fuck should I know? He’s probably licking his wounds somewhere. I’ve not seen him since.”

“When was the last time you had sex with him?” Carlisle asked, staring at Ripley intently. He seemed to think there was a lie in there somewhere, and was trying to ferret it out.

“Four days ago. The morning before the fight.”

“At the bedsit?”

“Aye, at the bedsit. I thought we left you enough evidence of that.”

“Indeed, it was most kind of you Mr Holden.” Carlisle smirked. “Was the bedsit the only place the two of you had sex?”

“It was that.”

“Things got a little physical outside though, didn’t they – in the alleyway around the back of the arcade.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Ripley denied.

“There’s a security camera near the entrance, Mr Holden.” Blythe chipped in. “The picture’s not great, but good enough to see who it is – and what they’re doing.” Ripley merely shrugged.

“You don’t need any comment from me then.”

“How about the fight? Can we anticipate any security footage of that?” Carlisle enquired. Ripley was taken aback for a moment, though he struggled to keep his expression neutral as his mind whirred. There wouldn’t necessarily be CCTV on the building site – not that far away from the equipment, at any rate. But it probably wasn’t worth the risk. It was obvious there had been no fight in the bedsit, so he had to give a different location anyway.

“We drove out into the country that day – Preston way. It was a park or summat. I didn’t even realise he was going to threaten me, thought we’d go out there to talk.”

“So you had a fight and then you drove him back to Blackpool?” Carlisle said disbelievingly.

“It weren’t _that_ far out. He got a cab, I guess.”

“Hmm.” Carlisle still didn’t believe him.

“Can you be more specific about the location?” Blythe asked. Ripley only shrugged.

“I weren’t really concentrating on that.” He tried. Carlisle looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. He was annoyingly perceptive, Ripley thought.

“Wasn’t Whittingham Hospital out by Preston?” The detective said at last. Ripley nearly swore aloud, but just managed to bite it back.

“Aye, it was.” He said shortly.

“I believe it’s being converted into housing now.” Carlisle commented. “I don’t suppose you’ve been back out there? While you were getting nostalgic, perhaps.” Ripley weighed up the options rapidly. If there _were_ security cameras at Whittingham and they had him climbing the fence it would be better to admit it now.

“I went out there the day David reappeared. Just to clear me head, mind. After the encounter in the alleyway, if you get the drift.”

“I do, Mr Holden. I’m guessing that was also where you went with David?” The detective pushed the point.

“Might have been.” Ripley shrugged mulishly.

“Might have been or _was_?” Blythe butted in, demanding clarification.

“Was.” Ripley gave in at last. “We shagged in those grounds enough as kids. Even if the buildings were gone, it were still another trip down memory lane.”

Carlisle nodded, rather smugly. “But then you had a fight instead.”

“Aye. Like I said, he threatened my family.”

“Was that the first time David had ever threatened you?” Carlisle continued.

“What are you, super-cop or summat?” Ripley actually voiced his disbelief this time. “No, it wasn’t. Like I told you before, it weren’t an amicable break-up.”

“It would help if you could tell us what happened.” Carlisle commented.

“And when exactly it was.” Blythe added. Ripley realised where they were going with this. They thought the whole thing was linked to the previous murder, back in 1979. But if Ripley denied all knowledge of that, he rather hoped they’d leave him alone once they had definitive proof that David had killed Mike Hooley.

“He was cheating on me.” Ripley decided this was the most believable story. He _had_ been annoyed about that after all. “A lot.”

“You expected monogamy, Mr Holden?” Carlisle affected disbelief. “Now, why does that surprise me?” Ripley shrugged.

“I was young and idealistic, detective. I got wise to life after that.”

“Indeed.” Carlisle said, thin-lipped. His dislike for Ripley was obvious. “So what happened when you found out about David’s infidelities?”

“We had a punch-up.” Ripley said, as if this was obvious. “Several, if I remember rightly. David weren’t the easiest person to argue with. He wouldn’t budge on most things. If I came out on top, sometimes a kicking would make him change his mind. Not often, though.”

“And it didn’t on that occasion?” Carlisle asked.

“He didn’t understand why I had a problem. I said I was leaving, and he didn’t try and stop me.”

“So where did the threats come in?” Carlisle frowned. He knew there was something missing. Ripley thought quickly.

“You’re probably aware that the way we lived wasn’t particularly legal.” He said casually. “I’d only just turned eighteen when we went our separate ways. We survived on petty theft and hustling tourists. We was always barely a step away from the coppers.”

“But you couldn’t turn David in without incriminating yourself, no matter how angry you were.” Blythe was frowning too now. There was a long pause. Then Ripley drew in a breath, as if this were a major confession.

“Remember last time we talked? You told me what was on David’s record and I pretended it were a surprise?” He waited for Carlisle to nod. “Well, it weren’t. Him sleeping around maybe I could have dealt with. But finding out that not all his partners had consented to it? Well, that were different.”

“Ah.” Carlisle nodded again. “That makes more sense, certainly. Did you tell him you’d report it?”

“No.” Ripley shook his head. “I didn’t have much in the way of evidence. But he threatened me all the same. He said he’d kill me if he ever even suspected I’d told anyone.”

“And you believed him?”

“He was quite convincing.”

“Didn’t you tell me before that you didn’t think David was capable of murder?” Carlisle remembered.

“I lied about that and all.” Ripley admitted.

“So, what made you think he meant what he said?”

“He was always a vicious bastard.” Ripley shrugged. “He never really cared who he hurt. And he were handy with a knife.”

“Nothing more concrete?”

“No. What do you mean?” Ripley feigned ignorance.

“Does the name Jason Bourne mean anything to you?” Carlisle asked. Ripley shook his head. He’d only found out the lad’s name afterwards, in the newspapers after the body was found. And he’d never seen the kid while he was alive either. “He wasn’t one of David’s lovers, perhaps?”

“Not that I know of. He didn’t exactly introduce me to them.”

There was a long pause, and then Carlisle opened a folder in front of him. There were some old photographs inside, with that slightly muted, unreal colouring prints from the ‘70s seemed to have. Carlisle spread four pictures out across the table. They all showed the inside of a largely empty room from different angles. The body of a young man was sprawled across a blood-soaked mattress on one side. One close-up showed multiple injuries slashed into his naked torso. Knife wounds. Ripley swallowed, looking away. It hadn’t been a pleasant thing to witness the first time, but he guessed that kind of reaction to photos like these was more or less expected.

“Do you recognise this scene, Mr Holden?” Carlisle was watching him like a hawk.

“No. Should I?”

“Let me jog your memory of the case, then. You must have read about it – it was a big deal in Blackpool back then.” Carlisle sat back in his chair, eyes still fixed on Ripley. “Jason Bourne had been dead eight days by the time they found him. No one much used the garages in Layton where he was found, so there was no one much to notice anything unusual. Eventually someone reported a strange smell, and the owner called the police. This was what they found when they broke in.” He waved a hand to indicate the photographs. “I’ll just give you a brief rundown of the post mortem results. The boy had bled to death from an assortment of wounds, inflicted over a period of time. There was also evidence that he’d been repeatedly raped. He might have been tortured for up to six hours before he finally died. His wrists were severely bruised – they’d been secured to a hook on the wall, but someone had cut him free before they left him.” Carlisle paused for a second. “ _After_ he had died, though, given the way the blood pooled, so it hadn’t been much help for young Bourne. He was just sixteen years old.” Ripley swallowed again. He didn’t enjoy hearing the description, though he’d known most of it already.

Carlisle gave him a moment, and then he reached forward, lightly touching the close-up of the wounds, pushing the picture forward slightly towards Ripley.

“You mentioned that David was handy with a knife. Could this have been his work, do you think?” He asked. Ripley stared at the picture for a long time. And then he sighed.

“I don’t know.” He said, with what he hoped was just the right amount of distress. “I hope not, but I really don’t know.” He paused a second, then looked up at Carlisle. “I thought the same twenty-five years ago.” There was another pause, and then Carlisle nodded.

“I think we’ll leave it there for now, Mr Holden.” He gathered the photographs and put them back into the folder, then turned back to Ripley. “I’m sure you’re aware that we’ve reopened the 1979 case in light of the new evidence. We may have samples good enough to compare with the new material. But what we _really_ need is to track Mr Williams down. If you hear anything from him – anything at all – I’d appreciate it if you could get in touch immediately.”

For once in his life, Ripley didn’t bother with a sharp retort. He simply nodded.

*

Ripley had originally intended to go to Terry’s – for enough to drink to try and forget the fact that Natalie had kicked him out. But after that conversation – and those photographs – he thought he was better off alone. Detective Carlisle was probably wondering why Ripley had jumped back into bed with David after everything he’d said. Well, on seeing that crime scene again Ripley was wondering it himself. What was the hold David had over him that had had made him forget it all as soon as he saw his former lover again? That had been the worst of David’s threats, in a way. Not the description of what he would do to Ripley if he ever crossed him but the simple: ‘You’re _mine_ , Ripley Holden’. A shiver ran down Ripley’s spine. After all these years, he still couldn’t escape David it seemed.

He checked into a hotel with a bottle of whiskey in the end – well away from the one David had been staying in before he left town. He needed something to take the edge off the painful reminders of the year he turned 18. His eighteenth birthday had been shortly before Brian decided to enlighten him about David. David had given him the deed poll papers as a present, and this almost repaired the cracks that were starting to open up in their relationship after London. Almost, but with David’s continued infidelities, not quite. He’d still loved David though, he knew that. Maybe he still had even when he took that fateful journey up to Layton. He’d intended to confront David, certainly. But it had never crossed his mind that this would be the end. He wasn’t even sure that David would be there, although he’d been out a good six or seven hours after the row, and it stood to reason he’d gone somewhere. And how else did David usually vent his frustrations if not on other people?

Brian had given Ripley the bus number and stop, and from there he managed to find the right street, after a few false starts. Rather luckily, considering how things later turned out, he hadn’t wanted to ask anyone for directions. This was his journey and his journey alone.

Still, when he reached the end of a quiet, run-down street and saw the dirty block of garages stretching ahead of him, he couldn’t help stalling. He had five Mayfair left in the packet and he smoked all of them before he geared himself up to walk to garage number 4. The concrete path was broken up with weeds, and the metal door of the garage covered in rust. There was no sound behind any of the doors, and Ripley wondered if maybe he had the wrong place. That, or David had already gone. He stood and listened for nearly ten minutes, and finally he was rewarded with a faint sound inside – the scratch of a cigarette lighter.

Before he could lose his nerve, Ripley banged loudly on the door. There was no response – no sound whatsoever now. He waited a moment and then banged again.

“David. It’s Ripley.” He paused a second. “David, I know you’re in there.” And then, more firmly. “Open the fucking door!” There was a sound then – possibly David getting to his feet. And then his voice, right on the other side of the metal barrier.

“Go home, Ripley.” David’s voice was flat but determined. Well, two could play at that game.

“I’m not going nowhere!” Ripley insisted. He sat down next to the door, leaning against the concrete that divided the garages. “I’m waiting right here until you open the door. You can’t stay in there forever.” There was a pause. Ripley figured David was weighing up the likelihood of Ripley holding good on his threat.

“You’ll just draw attention if you sit there, you prick.” David said at last, irritated now.

“Well, open the door then.” He heard David’s sigh even through the door.

“You always were a stubborn bastard.” He said, obviously deciding that Ripley meant his words. Ripley heard the scratching of metal as the door swung outwards. He couldn’t see much inside: it was still dark and the door was only open to about waist height. “That’s as far as it goes.” David announced. “Come in so I can close it.”

Nervously Ripley ducked under the door, into the darkness of the garage. He could smell the rust of the door – no, that stench was too strong for rust. David swung the door down with a clang and for a moment Ripley stood there in darkness, surrounded by the rich, meaty reek of iron. For a brief, terrified moment he wished he had some kind of weapon. And then David switched on the light.

The room was flooded by a long strip-light, so bright for a moment that Ripley blinked several times before his eyes accustomed to it. He was facing David, who was leaning almost nonchalantly against the wall in the corner by the door, one hand still on the light pull, a half-smoked cigarette in the other. David was naked, although that wasn’t immediately obvious because his body was stained a brownish-crimson all over – almost black in places. Blood was smeared thickly over his chest and groin, clotted in the hair on his arms, and sprayed across his smirking face. Ripley’s mouth fell open.

“Jesus, David!” He breathed. His eyes travelled to the floor, following a trail of blood over to the opposite corner of the bare, concrete space. There was someone else there, lying face down on a blood-soaked mattress. Another naked lad, drenched in so much blood that Ripley figured there was no way he could still be alive. His wrists were stretched out over his head, tied to a hook sticking out of the wall. “Fucking hell, David. What did you do?” He glanced back at David, but David merely shrugged and dropped his cigarette on the floor.

Ripley turned back, taking several unwilling steps closer. There was a large clasp knife lying on the corner of the mattress, not far from the boy's head. Ripley recognised it, he’d seen David with it a number of times. He crouched down, trying to avoid the worst of the blood and picked up the knife, sawing through the cords that bound the boy to the wall. The arms didn’t move much, despite being released. This close, Ripley could see that the lad was young – probably a little younger than he was himself. He was fairly small, not very strongly built. He wouldn’t have stood a chance against David.

Swallowing hard, Ripley tilted the lad’s head, trying not to look at his face. His hair had been blonde once, but its original colour was barely visible now under all the blood. Gingerly, he pressed his fingers against the boy’s neck. He couldn’t feel anything. He shifted them a few times, gritting his teeth at the feel of the sticky blood under his fingers. There was no pulse.

“I can’t imagine he’s still alive.” David said, rather casually, from behind him. Ripley turned his head.

“You fucking psycho!” He still couldn’t quite believe it. “You killed him!”

“I didn’t mean to.” David said, as if this made everything okay. “I was finding it a bit difficult to restrain myself after our earlier disagreement.” Ripley slowly got to his feet, squaring up to David. He was a lot closer to David’s size than the kid was. And he was still holding the knife.

“How long have you been doing this?” He was glowering now.

“I don’t usually kill them, you know.” David remarked.

“How _long_ , you arsehole?!” Ripley clenched his fists.

“I’ve had the garage six months. We came back from London so quickly they never even checked it, let alone re-let it, and I still had the key.” David paused a moment. “Before that it was a bit harder.”

“But you managed it all the same, I suppose?” Ripley gritted his teeth.

“On occasion, yes.” David shrugged. “I really don’t see what the big deal is. Most of the time it’s no worse injuries than a fist fight. You’re happy enough to break a few bones that way.”

“Christ, David! How can you not see the difference? At least in a fight there’s a reason for it. And the other lad has a chance to hit back an' all!” He waved the knife to indicate the boy. “He’s just a _victim_!”

“Well, rather him than me.” David retorted.

“But it never _is_ you, is it you bastard?” Ripley was angry now, and David’s refusal to respond was irritating him. He supposed David really had vented all his frustrations, for now at least. “You just bulldoze through life crushing everyone in your fucking wake! I always thought I were different. I always thought it was you and me against the world.” He paused for a second, breathing hard. “But what’s the difference between me and these poor bastards you drag up here? What _was_ I to you David?  _Convenient?_ ” He spat the last word.

David just smirked and Ripley nearly hit him. He realised, just in time, that the more that happened here the harder it would be to cover their tracks. And self-preservation just about won out over his anger at David. He looked around him.

“Well, I guess I’m implicated in your sordid little games now. So here’s what we’re gonna do. We’ll clean up what evidence we can and leave. I ain’t doing nothing with the body, so it’s your business whether you leave it and come with me now or stay and get rid of him.” He paused for a second. “And then there’s nowt you can do but leave Blackpool, David. You leave, and I reckon we’re invisible enough no one’ll find you. But stay and you’ll run the risk someone’s seen you. It won’t take much to connect you to the crime once you’re a suspect.”

David regarded Ripley thoughtfully for a moment.

“How about _we_ leave Blackpool?” He suggested.

“And the whole thing happens again somewhere else? Fuck off!”

David shrugged. “You’re right, the quicker we’re out of here the better. We can continue this at home.”

Ripley only gave a non-committal grunt in reply but that seemed to be enough for David. David made his way to the corner, where there was a tap with a length of hose attached and turned it on, starting to clean himself off.

“Give me the knife.” David said airily, once he’d washed the worst of the blood from his body.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Well, we’ve got to clean it.” David frowned, looking confused.

“I’ll do it. I’ve got to wash me hands anyway.” Ripley took a step forward. David paused from scrubbing at the blood, staring at Ripley, brow still furrowed.

“You don’t trust me.” He said. He sounded surprised.

“No shit!”

“I wouldn’t hurt you, Ripley.” David’s words sounded genuine, but Ripley knew full well that didn’t mean much.

“Yeah, well your definition of ‘hurt’ is a bit different from mine, David. You was going to rape me earlier, remember?”

“Hmm.” David shrugged. He obviously didn’t equate the two things but he let the matter drop. He passed the hose to Ripley and walked to a small cabinet, which he opened to remove a towel and his clothes. He dried himself off while Ripley cleaned the knife, and then the bottom of his shoes, before turning his hose on anything else resembling his footprint in the streams of blood that covered the floor.

David dressed quickly, using the towel to wipe the cupboard rather cursorily. Ripley watched him sceptically.

“I bet your fingerprints are everywhere in here, you twat.” He said. David shrugged, swinging the towel over his arm.

“That’s why I need to leave town, remember?” He held his hand out. “Are you going to give me my knife back?”

Ripley stepped around the blood towards David, hesitating a few feet away.

“There’s far more evidence of my presence here than yours. Do you really want to get caught with the murder weapon?” David went on. Ripley sighed. He snapped the knife closed with one hand and passed it over. David stashed it in his jacket and turned off the light before opening the door.

They crawled out underneath, and David closed and locked the garage.

“What are you going to do with the key?” Ripley asked. David shook his head.

“Never you mind, baby.” He said. And then, as they walked down the lane. “I suggest we walk back. Less chance of being spotted than the bus.”

It took them more than half an hour to walk back to the squat. It was dark, and the streets were quiet. They mostly walked in silence. Ripley said nothing other than the occasional request for a cigarette, much needed after the last few hours. David invariably passed him the packet without a word. When they got inside, Ripley started gathering his few belongings together, still without saying anything. David watched him for a moment.

“Where are you off to then?” He asked at last. Ripley, the entirety of his worldly possessions now shoved into the same bag that had accompanied him since Whittingham, glowered at him.

“Never you mind, _baby_.” He aped David’s earlier words with a snarl. David chuckled.

“You’re still fucking adorable when you’re angry.” He said. He was leaning against the wall by the door, to all appearances relaxed, but Ripley anticipated that he might try and stop him leaving. “How about a final shag before you go?” David suggested. Ripley thought of the blood in the garage and felt sick.

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d be able to get it up again after everything you put that poor lad through.” His voice was gruff. David laughed again but he had straightened up a little, muscles tensed, as if poised to attack.

“I really don’t see why you give a shit.” There was an edge to his voice.

“You went too fucking far David, that’s why!” Ripley slung the bag onto his back, but didn’t make any move towards the door, waiting to see what David would do first. David shifted his weight, so that he was partly blocking the doorway.

“You know I can’t let you leave like this.” David’s voice was dangerous. Then he sneered. “Not without a goodbye fuck, at least!”

“ _You_ fucking did this, David!” Ripley didn’t flinch at his boyfriend’s words. “If you hadn’t killed some poor kid just to get a few fucking kicks then _neither_ of us would have had to leave.” He didn’t want to leave Blackpool. But maybe he’d head up the coast, at least for a short while. Or into Preston perhaps? He hadn’t quite decided, but he knew he had to get away on two counts: so that he was nowhere near when the police found the body in the garage _and_ to make it harder for David to come after him.

While Ripley was thinking, David had pulled the knife out of his jacket. Ripley took a step towards the door nonetheless, and David straightened the blade out with a muted click.

“What do you think you’re gonna do?” Ripley said scornfully. David laughed nastily.

“You know full well what I can do, honey.”

“You leave another body here and there’s no fucking way you’ll get away with this.” Ripley pointed out. “There’s far too many people in this place who know your name and can describe you to the police. Some of them would be only too happy to.” He thought of Cindy and her righteous anger. He still didn’t think her reading was correct. David was only dangerous now because he was cornered. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t hurt Ripley, sure, but if Ripley just kept quiet, they could have carried on as they were before. In a way, he wished there was another choice. That David would back down, admit he’d fucked up and beg Ripley to stay… But he knew that David never would.

David chewed his lip thoughtfully. Usually, the threat of getting caught wouldn’t have been enough to stop him. But even David was aware how serious this was. He was not quite nineteen years old, and Ripley figured he would do what he could to avoid a murder rap. But he didn’t lower the knife just yet.

“Okay, sweetheart, I’ll let you go.” David said slowly. “But just make sure you keep looking over your shoulder. Because if I ever even _suspect_ you’ve let anything slip, you’ll be wishing you were fucking dead long before I’ve finished with you.” He stared at Ripley but Ripley’s gaze didn’t falter, even when David licked his lips, presumably imagining what he might do to Ripley. “You might think you can hide, but I can always find you because I care a lot fucking less than you what I do or who I hurt. You think what you saw in that garage was bad? There’s worse ways to die, believe me.”

He lowered the knife at last, resting the blade flat against his leg. Ripley didn’t answer, but he took another few steps forward. David didn’t move from in front of the door, even as Ripley reached for the handle.

“How about a goodbye kiss?” David’s tone was still vicious.

“ _Fuck_ you!” Ripley couldn’t think of a wittier retort. His hand was shaking as he pulled down the door handle, yanking the door forward. He couldn’t get it open quite far enough to get out with David in the way. David was smirking now.

“A kiss is a small price to pay, surely?” He teased, and Ripley realised he meant it. Another fucking mind game. Jesus! He gritted his teeth, leaning forward unwillingly. David grabbed the back of his head, pulling him closer until their lips touched. Ripley wondered if he was imagining the smell of blood, or if it still clung to David after everything he’d done. When he closed his eyes, he could see the mutilated corpse of the lad in the garage so he kept them open, trying to think of anything but that. He thought of the past three years, of the way David had rescued him from his former life, from Whittingham and his fucked-up childhood, and not the way everything had fallen apart.

David’s tongue pushed against his mouth and Ripley parted his lips, feeling sick as he felt David’s tongue invade him. Maybe this was worse than rape, a hideous reminder of the false intimacy he had enjoyed with David. In the back of his mind, Ripley knew this was a ridiculous thing to think but, just in that moment, it seemed true. And then, finally, David let go of the back of his head and Ripley pulled away and knew that it could have been much, much worse. David’s eyes pierced through him, a maliciously smug grin plastered across his face.

“You’re _mine_ , Ripley Holden.” David’s voice was soft. “You’ll realise it one day. You can leave this room – leave Blackpool even. But you’ll never get me out of your head.”

Ripley didn’t answer. He dragged the door open as soon as David stepped away and marched out. He didn’t run: his steps were fast but measured. Neither did he look back, not even when he left the building and walked away down the street for the last time.

Before he went into hiding, Ripley found somewhere to buy a gun. The same gun that was still in the glove compartment of his car. He figured he’d better dispose of it before the police definitively linked the murders. It wouldn’t do for them to find it – it might not be linked to any specific crime but it wasn’t legal nonetheless. And David wasn’t coming back.

Despite everything, this somehow saddened him. Or maybe it was just the whiskey making him maudlin.


End file.
